


take me with you

by outwardbound93



Series: i'll keep moving (through the dark) [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 88,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outwardbound93/pseuds/outwardbound93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m dating Niall,” Harry blurts out in the middle of their interview with Scott Mills. Liam’s, Louis’s, and Scott’s heads all swing around to him. Niall doesn’t so much as blink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> massive thank you to arwa, without whom this fic would've been scrapped before it even really started, and priya who is, as always, the best at names. title is from walk the moon's 'portugal.'

“I’m dating Niall,” Harry blurts out in the middle of their interview with Scott Mills. Liam’s, Louis’s, and Scott’s heads all swing around to him. Niall doesn’t so much as blink.

“You’re dating Niall?” Scott repeats, his voice characteristically breaking up on the last word. Harry loves the way he talks. Liam forwarded him the interview where Scott said his favorite band member was Liam, though, so Harry’s politely refrained from asking him to record a voicemail message for Harry’s phone.

Louis has that same bored look on his face as he always does whenever Harry talks. Sometimes he bumps it up to almost interested, but. That’s pretty rare. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Practically joined at the hip, these two.” Liam’s head swings between Harry, Louis, and Niall; Harry can just hear him thinking, Watch it, lads, or maybe he’s murmured it to them. It’s all so familiar now, Harry can’t be sure.

Harry nods. “Yup. That’s us.”

“Really? That’s quite a shock, are you sure you’re ready to tell the fans yet?” Scott asks, his face the picture of unimpressed. Harry shifts in his seat a bit. His bum’s gone numb, they’ve been sitting here so long.

Liam says, “Well, you did ask us what we were planning to do on the break. Harry’s just – ”

“I’m doing Niall,” Harry says, and smiles to himself. Niall’s face is like stone.

“You heard it here first,” Scott sighs, and tries to get them to talk about their upcoming album, the AMAs, and what they’re really planning to do when the band goes on hiatus.

“I don’t think that was such a good idea,” Liam murmurs while they’re waiting in the dressing rooms for their security to come collect them from this year’s “secret location,” which is really just a secure studio on the Universal film lot, and Harry sighs.

He rakes his hair back and tries to find the energy to explain himself to Liam. Defend himself, it feels like, these days. “It was just a joke, Liam. We’ve been asked the same question a thousand times and answered it a hundred different ways. I’m just tired of – ” Harry falters for a moment before he finishes, “just tired.”

“We’re all tired,” Louis snaps. “I’ve got a colicky baby at home, you don’t think I’m tired? But for God’s sakes, stop fucking about in interviews.”

“They’re boring,” Harry complains. He knows he’s complaining. He knows he’s coming across like a stroppy little boy, but he can’t make himself stop. He seems to remember a time when fucking about in interviews was one of their favorite things to do.

Niall plays peacemaker, like always. Harry leans into him when he puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder, even though he’s not looking at him. “‘S not bad advice, Louis. We’ve got it.”

Security knocks and the boys file out with their respective bodyguards into separate cars. Harry thinks he’s overheard Louis inviting Liam home to his house in a neighborhood not far from Harry’s.

Lou and Lux catch up to them on the long walk to the cars waiting just outside the back door. Lou’s hair is tinged with aquamarine and Lux has a strip of her hair done up the same color. It always makes Harry do a double-take, because he’s known Lux since before she could hold her own head up, and now she’s a tiny little clone of her mum. She grabs onto his hand and he swings her around like a pendulum from his hand, her fingers biting into the cross between his forefinger and thumb.

“Want to come to ours tonight?” Lou asks him distractedly, her eyes on her phone. She’s been seeing someone again lately, Harry can tell. Her legs have been shaven and she’s had him watch Lux on Friday and Saturday nights. Also, Lux has told him that mum’s been telling her she’s going on dates. So. It’s just a matter of time until Harry figures out who it is. Or Lux tells him. It’s all the same, really.

Niall glances over. “What about you, Nialler?” Lou asks, turning her phone on him. She holds her thumb to the red button at the bottom of the screen, and Snapchat starts recording. Niall makes a loony face at the camera and crows, “Seein’ a boxing match at the Palladium! Fight me if you’re there,” he laughs.

Lou deletes the video and shakes her head at Niall. “You don’t want to say that,” she says.

“Ah, Bas will protect me,” Niall says, clapping Basil on the back. Basil raises a doubtful eyebrow.

“So?” Lou prompts Harry as they approach the exit door. This is what One Direction’s security team calls a “critical point.” They mean a point at which they can’t guarantee the band’s safety. Harry’s stomach hurts in a distant sort of way.

Harry shakes himself. “Jeff’s having a do,” he says, and Lou nods, like it’s not unexpected.

Harry’s car drives him straight to Jeff’s. His house is on the way, and he leans his forehead against the window and looks out at it when they drive by. It’s big and looming and somehow not quite what he expected when he got it. He bought it on a trip to LA with Cal ages ago and only just moved his things into it. But even that second time back, when he’d come round to think about renovations, the car had brought him over and he’d thought, Surely this isn’t the right house?

The dinner party is in full swing by the time Harry arrives. In true LA fashion, he’s not woefully underdressed in his skinny jeans and YSL top even though the women are all wearing dresses and heels. Or maybe it’s the whole popstar thing. He’ll have to ask Jeff later. Harry’s surprised by how many faces at this do are familiar to him; Xander’s there, and Cam and Alli and Glenne and a few more of Jeff’s cousins. The whole family’s here, Harry thinks, folding his sheepskin coat over his arm.

He finds Jeff inside by his record collection, having a chat with Chelsea Handler, when Harry approaches. Chelsea leans forward and kisses his cheek sloppily in a way that Harry supposes is meant to be sultry but is really just a bit too spitty for his tastes, but when he opens his mouth to ask her how she’s doing, she spots someone across the room and bows out of their conversation.

Jeff’s got a knowing look on his face. “You can’t really blame her,” he says, grinning.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, furrowing his brow.

“Nothing. Just, sometimes talking to you is like wading through quicksand. Very, very slow,” Jeff snorts, wrapping his arm around Harry’s shoulders and reeling him in. He ruffles Harry’s hair and urges him to move through the house. Harry goes easily. “How was promo day?” he asks.

Harry combs his hair back from his face. His rings catch in his hair and he can’t get free of the tangles without just pulling his hand free. It hurts. “Day one of three,” Harry sighs.

“Your contract is up next year,” Jeff starts in on a very familiar subject, “and even if you don’t want to sign with me, I can help you look into other management possibilities.”

“They got us this far,” Harry protests weakly. It’s something Liam’s said too many times to count.

Jeff gives him a disbelieving look. “You got yourselves this far,” he says, “and not even all of you made it this far,” like Harry needs the reminder.

“That’s not all it was about,” Harry says, but Jeff’s drawn them to a halt in front of Nadine. She’s still beautiful, and she’s still kind. Harry still doesn’t know why they didn’t work. He smiles. “Hi, how are you?”

She hugs him quickly, no awkward lingering. “Very well, and you?” Harry nods. “How’s the new album looking?”

“I’ve just seen the mock-ups the other day,” says Harry, thinking of the rows and rows and rows of that album already packed in CD cases and wrapped in plastic to get ready to ship out to music stores and Targets and Walmarts all over the country. The world. It still staggers him. “Mad.”

“The cover looks mad,” Nadine observes. “It looks like an Andy Warhol print. Was that your idea?” she smiles.

“I wish,” Harry says. He’d actually been surprised when he’d seen the final product, the four individual portraits of himself and Niall and Louis and Liam instead of the single photo of all of them he was used to. It looked great, just. Weird. Disjointed.

The party goes on too long, feels like, or maybe it’s just that Harry should’ve had his driver stop for espresso before he came over. By the time he’s stumbling into his own house and disarming the security system, he’s too tired to even take a shower before bed. He’ll just wear his hair up tomorrow, he thinks, stepping out of his boots and jeans and shirt and sliding under the covers.

He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Harry sort of feels like he did have that shot of espresso, because his brain is buzzing with half-formed thoughts too loud to sleep through. Harry gets back out of bed and sits on the floor to do some yoga, easy stuff, child’s pose, pigeon. All his concentration goes into feeling the stretch, minding his breathing. His mind goes blessedly quiet.

The moment he stops it all rushes right back in, the uncomfortable uneasy feeling of having something to do, like he’s not turned an assignment in on time. Like the deadline’s approaching and he’s not even started the project yet.

Harry ties his hair up into a knot at the back of his head – it’s too tight, but he can’t bring himself to mind enough to redo it – and flicks the lamp on. He brings his journal out of the bedside table and cracks it open, the leather giving way with a creak. New journals are always like that, a little stiff until they get broken in. Harry’d filled in the last one in just a few weeks, a major break from the days when it’d taken him months of sleepless nights to fill up a journal.

At this rate, Harry’s new journal will be filled up by the end of the month. He sighs, and starts writing.

 

***

 

The AMAs arrive with as much fanfare as usual. Some award shows, like the TCAs or the VMAs, are actually quite fun. Last year, Harry met Nick Petricca backstage at the TCAs and he sang the spooky backwards bit from “Another One Bites the Dust” and Harry had just about cried with laughter. The more formal the awards show, though, the more formally everyone’s dressed, and the less likely anyone is to want to shoot champagne out of their nose. Harry’s almost glad they’ve never made it to the Grammy’s.

Almost.

The One Direction camp is set up at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel this year. Harry scrolls through his Instagram feed on the ride to the hotel. So many of his friends have had babies in the last year. Their feeds are all crammed with photos of their little babes sucking on their tiny fists, or looking mindlessly into a camera while they lay naked on a sheepskin rug, which is both Harry’s favorite infant pose and the one he would most like to recreate as an adult. Maybe for his Christmas cards this year.

He lingers over Jonny’s latest post of himself and his scrimmage footie team out to dinner together. Most of them were his classmates in uni, and – it’s just weird, Harry thinks, that he’s already done with uni. “It was a grand time,” Jonny had laughed when Harry asked. “What d’you mean, what was it like? We revised a lot, and did, like, pub quiz team, and saw footie matches. Lads’ road trip to Leeds fest. You know. The normal stuff.”

Harry just nodded like, “Oh, right, of course.”

Liam and Niall and their style team are already in their suite when Harry arrives. Louis’s on his way, according to Liam, who’s suffering having his short hair pulled up tight and high in a razor-sharp quiff. Niall’s hair is still soft over his forehead, and Harry catches himself reaching out to push it back for him. Niall twists around to look at him like he can feel Harry’s hand hovering in midair, and Harry’s arm drops back to his side.

Frowning, Niall asks, “Not feeling well, Styles?”

“I think it’s allergies,” Harry says. “Last weekend – or no, it was a Monday, I guess it must’ve been earlier this week – I was talking to Jeff’s medicinal herbalist and she was saying – ”

“Oh, God, not one of those stories again,” Louis says, striding into the hotel room. He’s got a scowl on his face and what looks like baby vom on the front of his shirt. Harry shushes up and draws back, looking for Lou and Lux and the wardrobe racks to select his suit. It’s still weird not having Caroline around, even though they’d done so much of the tour and this promo season without her. No matter how many times Harry’s met Tom and had his help dressing he still walks into a styling expecting to find Caroline jamming Zayn’s latest mix and chasing Brooklyn around.

Lou pushes Harry down onto a folding chair like actors use while she attacks his hair with a brush. Lux climbs into his lap. “You should get a tattoo on your face,” she says, gnawing on an orange.

Harry gently pries it out of her hands and gets his thumbnail through the peel. He sets about peeling the orange for her. “What should I get?” he asks amiably. A face tat might be cool, he thinks. He’s seen some characters around LA with teardrops near their eyes and that seems a nice statement, although security has always thwarted his efforts to ask them about it.

“A unicorn,” Lux says, biting into a piece of orange. Harry’s hands reek of fruit now, and he holds them under his nose and breathes deep. He’s had a recipe for the smell of autumn screenshotted on his phone for ages now, something with oranges and cinnamon and apples to make the house smell good. Like organic potpourri. He’s not yet had the time to try it.

Maybe on hiatus, he thinks. He’ll add it to the growing list of other stuff he plans to do on break. Try his hand at growing petunias. Test out some new hairstyles. Call back all those relatives he hasn’t seen in ages. Sort out all that art he’s got leaning against the walls in his house in LA. 

Lou snorts, running her waxed-up fingers through Harry’s hair. “Don’t tell ‘im that, Luxy,” she says, smiling. “He might well do it.”

“I might well,” Harry agrees, poking Lux in the cheek so that she’ll smile. “I’ll call it Lux.”

“It’s a good time for a hiatus,” Lou comments, once Lux has gone off to tell Niall about Harry’s plans for a new tattoo. Niall glances up and shakes his head minutely, and Harry grins manically. It’s a shame, really. He’d rather liked the idea, but if Niall thinks it’s not so good. Maybe he’ll try pitching it to Gemma next, see what she thinks. “Lux going into school and all. I don’t know how I would’ve chosen between her and you.”

Harry says, “And us,” because he knows what Lou’s trying to do. “Wait just a tick.” He cranes his head around to look at her as Louis’s voice escalates. Liam makes his voice softer and smoother, and Louis quiets, calmed somewhat. Harry wonders absently what he’s so stroppy about. “Why does it sound like you’ve been thinking about this?”

Lou’s mouth moves without making any noise. “Eh. Erm.”

“Lou Teasdale,” Harry says, snagging her wrist when she goes to pull his hair and distract him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She breaks his grip and halfway rips his hair out as she runs a comb through his curls, setting them in place with a fine mist of hairspray. “Nothing you need to know, laddy,” she sniffs.

“Batty old lady,” Harry mutters, hoping Lou can’t hear him. She smacks him around the head with the flat of the brush for his efforts.

Tom’s gone with color on this red carpet run-through, so all of them are in suits of various deep hues. Harry’s got green, Louis’s wearing a deep blue suit that shows off his eyes, Liam’s in dark red. He’s chosen a dark woodsy brown look for Niall, and ordinarily Harry would think that’s a terrible choice, but his eyes look crazy blue.

“Are we sure Nick Carter and the boys haven’t done this before?” Louis’s asking when Harry comes out of the bog for a last-minute wee. He’d learned from the Brits not to take chances with that. “I don’t want another Drag Me Down now, Tommy.”

“You should be proud if we do another Backstreet Boys,” Liam comments idly from his spot on the couch. “Although I’d prefer an ‘Nsync.”

“Obviously,” Niall rolls his eyes. Harry stares a bit.

Phil knocks on the door. Bas pulls it open for him. “Ready to go?” Bas asks.

He nods. “Let’s roll out, lads. One at a time, then, quick-step.”

They do the usual formation, Louis in the front, Liam at the end, Niall and Harry somewhere in the middle. It takes almost twenty minutes for all four of them to get down the elevators, through the halls, out the back door and into the waiting cars. Each boy in his separate car.

Though, Niall surprises Harry by sliding in next to him in his Range Rover.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks.

“I got in the other car,” Niall answers. “Got out the other side. It’ll look like I’m still there. What, you want me to go back?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, ‘course not.”

The ride from the Beverly Wilshire to the Microsoft Theatre is quiet and not entirely comfortable. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, either, but. He’s not sure which of them isn’t saying something, but the car has that feeling. Like when rain threatens over London, and you want to go to the park or to Piccadilly Circus, but there’s the chance you might get rained out, so you spend all day watching the sky without actually doing anything.

Harry watches the highway roll by under the Range Rover’s tires, Phil at the wheel. He’s got only his left hand on the wheel, his wrist braced against the black leather, and Harry studies his simple gold wedding ring. He wonders where Phil found the time to get married in between One Direction’s tour schedule and Harry’s own unbearable habit of four a.m. jogs. Harry certainly hasn’t found the time.

Niall’s phone screen illuminates his face in the gathering darkness inside the car, the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean slow and easy. “Hozier says hi,” Niall says off-handedly.

“Hm?” Harry peels his forehead off the window. His skin’s left behind a makeup imprint.

“We’re trying to schedule a jam session,” Niall offers, biting his lip as he thumbs through his calendar app. Harry tries to be subtle about looking at it. His calendar looks busy, busy. Harry feels tired just looking at it.

“Tell him I said hello,” Harry says, propping his head up on the heel of his hand. He watches Niall expertly navigate his phone. He seems to be juggling three or four apps, who knows how many conversations. “You, uh. Are you thinking of making a record while we’re on break?”

Niall’s eyes glaze over, and he stops chewing on the cuticle of his thumb for a moment. “I dunno,” Niall admits, looking over at Harry. “Prob’ly not.”

Harry tips his head back against the window and closes his eyes. “You should.”

“I should?” Niall repeats. “Oh. Uh, well, thanks. Was thinking maybe I’d take the break and work on my golf game.” He’s quiet for a moment. “We, uh, haven’t been out in ages. Maybe we could hit the green together sometime.”

Harry thinks about spending four or five hours in the cold, and his nose automatically starts running. Then he thinks about spending four or five hours shooting the breeze with Niall. Talking shit about each other’s swing. Calling his mum at the end of the day and hearing Niall’s Irish brogue slurring his own words by sheer exposure, and he can’t think of a better offer. “Yeah?”

“If you want,” Niall shrugs, and Harry wants to close the gap between them in the car, but he doesn’t know what he’d do. Trees rush past on the right side of the highway, and the left side is all middle America: boxy flats and faded shops. Car rides always make Harry dull and groggy, so he just nods and turns to look back out the window on his side.

One Direction are up for three awards, so they’re stuck until the end of the show. Harry can tell he’s not the only one that would rather be somewhere else. Louis spends every commercial or musical break talking into his phone, and Liam drapes his arm around Niall and keeps talking about his upcoming holiday to the Tropics with Sophia. Harry wonders if he plans to propose.

They’re ushered backstage by AMA producers before their performance, so Harry stops by craft services on his way for a shot of espresso and a chat with the craft services attendant, who looks like he might know where Harry can find something more nutritious to eat than ham and cheese sandwiches and soggy crisps. He doesn’t, but he’s a nice guy, anyway. Harry poses for a picture with him.

By the time he gets backstage, Louis and Liam and Niall are all half-dressed in their performance outfits. They’re all wearing all-black ensembles, and it reminds Harry of their first tour, when they wore the same outfits show after show. It was comforting, but also kind of mind-melting, because those shows all blended together after a while. He remembers Louis and Zayn busting their arses and Niall twirling him, and those things all happened at different shows, if they happened at all.

Right before they’re due to go on, Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. If he listens intently, he can hear the crowd on the other side of the curtain teeming. He imagines their screams when One Direction takes the stage, and he reminds himself that this might be their only time seeing One Direction live. Make it as good as possible, Harry reminds himself. The producers send the boys up, and Harry catches himself half-running for the stage, rushing toward the fans’ screams like they’re something real and substantial and necessary. Sustaining.

When they’re backstage again changing back into their show clothes, Niall looks over at Harry. He’s just taking a little break on a folding chair wedged into the corner of the room. The black curtains that make up the walls muffle the sound from the stage and the theatre floor well enough that Harry thinks he could go for a little kip real quick. “You alright?” Niall asks, frowning.

Harry nods, pushing his hair back from his face. “Oh, yeah, yeah. Maybe I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

“Think you’ll vom?” Niall asks.

“Nah. Probably not.”

Niall follows up, “You goin’ to the after party, then? We could ride together, if you want.”

Harry looks up at him. Niall looks back steadily. He’s always so steady. Rock solid. That’s always what reviewers say about Liam, that he’s the most consistent performer, but. But those reviewers don’t get to look around the stage in the middle of a show for what’s going on and see Niall with a guitar strapped over his front and remember what it is they’re meant to be doing. “Okay,” Harry says.

Five drinks later, he’s pretty happy he’s come to the after party. He’s seen so many people he’s forgotten he knows, whatever their names are. The Soho House is bumping a Miley remix and he’s just pissed enough to let himself enjoy it. “I love this song!”

Xander laughs in his face. “You’re drunk!”

“I’m going to grow petunias,” Harry informs him. Suddenly the floor lurches under his feet and Harry stumbles sideways into someone he thinks he knows. “Kendall? Is that you?”

“Good God,” Xander laughs, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist. “You need to get home.”

“What’s this about goin’ home?” Niall asks loudly. At least, Harry thinks it’s Niall. He’s lost all sense of his own volume and Harry knows that accent.

Harry opens his mouth. “I’m going to grow – ”

“He’s gotta get in bed, he’s drunk off his ass,” Xander laughs. They’ve been moving toward the doors and Harry can’t be sure, but he thinks that new Adele song has come on, and he tries to slither out of Xander’s grasp to go dance. He’s got just the move for it. “Whoops!”

Someone slides under Harry’s other arm, and he can’t quite make out their face, but he knows that smell. Hugo Boss and mint toothpaste and some other inimitable thing. “Jesus,” Niall huffs, laughing. “Got ‘im.”

Between the two of them, they half-carry Harry toward the door. The bass is thumping, and he can feel it in the soles of his feet, and he doesn’t want to go home and drink two glasses of water and take a couple of paracetamol before bed. He wants to catch a plane somewhere. It’s been a while since he’s been to Argentina, maybe there. Chile. Where’s that God-shaped statue, again?

“Rio de Janeiro,” Niall snorts. “You’re not going to Brazil tonight, Haz.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Harry agrees amiably. A wave of cold air washes over him, and he shivers in the doorway to the club as Xander ducks out from under Harry’s arm to call for his driver to pull the car around. “Xander,” Harry says fuzzily. “Did I tell you I’m dating Niall?” He hiccups.

Xander rolls his eyes, his phone pressed to his ear. “You’re also dating me and anyone else you know.”

“Not according to Scott Mills,” Harry sniffs. “What we’ve got is special, right, Niall?” Niall props him up against the wall while he rifles through his pockets.

“Sure, sure,” Niall says distractedly. He’s got his phone out and his eyes on the kerb, where the car will be.

Xander laughs. “They’re all special to you, Hersh. Till they’re not.”

“That’s not true,” Harry says indignantly.

“Yeah,” Niall chimes in. He’s got a crooked smile on his face, and he keeps Harry from smacking his face into the pavement when Harry lists a bit too far to one side. “It’s cruel to make fun of him when he can’t properly defend ‘imself sober, y’know. Like taking candy from a baby.”

Harry drawls, “Hey,” and pinches the part of Niall closest at hand. Niall swats Harry’s hand away from his bum.

“Ooh, lovers’ quarrel,” Xander laughs. “Better kiss and make up.”

Niall looks up from his phone with a laugh, so Harry snorts out a giggle and tightens the arm draped around Niall’s shoulders. “Yeah. Go on then, Nialler. I’m waiting.”

Niall huffs, and Xander starts laughing again, so quick as lightning his mouth presses against Harry’s, and then he’s pulling back, his cheeks flushed pink. Niall laughs smugly. “There you go,” he says.

“Wait,” Harry says dumbly, because he didn’t even get to taste him, but then the car’s there, and Xander’s bundling Harry into the back of the Range Rover. Harry curls up on his side in the backseat and dozes all the way home, and then he just passes out on top of his covers, shoes on and all.

 

***

 

“You total fucking idiot,” Louis wakes Harry up by saying. Harry’s still trying to get the ringing out of his head. Has his alarm always sounded that penetratingly loud? He shakes his head a bit and then he realizes that he’s just made a terrible mistake, so he drops his phone on the bed and stumbles to the en suite as fast as he can. He unloads a bottle of very expensive vodka into the toilet.

“Ugh,” Harry groans, slumping over until his cheek rests against the cool porcelain toilet seat. Then he sees the inner rim of the toilet where his cleaning service hasn’t been reaching, apparently, and pukes again. He crawls out of his traitor of a bathroom. “Nowhere is safe,” he’s muttering into the phone. Who’s he talking to, again?

Louis swears colorfully. Harry’s more than a little impressed. He maybe takes notes. “Did you just wake up?” Louis demands.

Harry swallows back the taste of bile. “Unfortunately.”

“Check the fucking news,” Louis orders, so Harry stretches for the remote on the nightstand and flicks the TV on. Giuliana Rancic looks pretty and plastic, like usual, on E! news when Harry flips the channel over.

Harry’s just opening his mouth to ask whether Mila Kunis’s new baby pictures are worth all this drama when a picture of himself and Niall on the red carpet comes up. Harry’s wearing a zigzag orange shirt, so he thinks it must’ve been from something a while ago. He tries to measure the length of his hair now versus then. He wonders why news stations always use old photos of them for news segments.

“In an exciting development that has Directioners all over the world freaking out on Twitter and Tumblr,” Giuliana starts, “Harry Styles and Niall Horan were spotted last night kissing goodbye at the Soho House in Los Angeles where they were celebrating their AMAs win. This comes hot on the heels of the announcement of their relationship to Scott Mills,” and the screen cuts to their interview with Scott a few days ago.

“Oh, no,” Harry murmurs.

“It gets worse,” Louis says tightly, and then his own voice plays over the TV, and he’s saying, “Oh, yeah. Practically joined at the hip, these two,” and Harry’s looking at a poorly framed photograph of Niall’s mouth pressed to his.

Harry licks his lips. “How’d it get out, though? It’s Soho, they’re not – ”

“Technically, you were outside,” Louis says. “The no photo rule doesn’t apply. I thought of that, too. We can’t take any legal action.”

“Louis,” Harry starts. “What – ”

“We’ve got a meeting with publicity in an hour,” Louis answers quickly. Harry hears the faint sound of a baby crying in the background, and he feels doubly guilty, and hungover, and somehow still tired.

Harry drives himself to the meeting. He’s had a shower and eaten two bites of an apple without puking, so maybe he’ll have lunch after the meeting. Or during the meeting. It could run that long. Harry’s reminded of that first meeting after Zayn called to say he wasn’t coming back, and he shuts down that line of thought quick. His hair’s still dripping onto his shoulders, wetting the back of his collar, but as always, sitting behind the wheel gives Harry some sense of control.

The moment he climbs out of the car he feels seasick again. It doesn’t help that the paps had swarmed the gates to his neighborhood. Some must be smarter than the others because they’re here, outside of their publicist’s offices, too. Harry tries to block it out and keep his head down, but of course some gets through. “How long have you and Niall been in a relationship?” “Is it serious?” “How will this affect the band?” “You’ve been linked to Louis and Nick Grimshaw in the past, what do they think of your latest beau?”

That last one actually gives Harry pause. “I never – I didn’t – ” And then Phil’s reaching through the crowd of pushy journalists and their flashing cameras and pulls Harry through to the other side, into an elevator whose doors slam shut the moment Harry steps over the threshold. “Thank you,” he says.

Phil snorts. “My pleasure. How are you doing, Harry?”

“Uh.” Harry rubs his forehead. “Yeah, okay, I guess. How’s, er, Niall?”

Phil nods. “He’s upstairs.” Harry nods back. He gets Phil’s meaning.

Liam and Niall are sat on one side of a long conference table, their publicist at the head. The rest of her team is spread out on the other end of the table, pushing papers at each other and arguing quietly but intensely. It sounds like a library at exam time, and Harry’s stomach clenches.

Harry sits down opposite Niall, who won’t meet his eye. Louis bustles in a good ten minutes later, when Harry’s made up a cup of coffee with too much sugar to drink. He keeps mixing it, watching the oily surface of the coffee chase his stirrer. The TV on the wall is tuned to E! News, and the coverage on Harry and Niall rotates up every eight minutes or so. Not that Harry’s counting.

Louis throws himself down in the chair beside Harry’s. “Sorry I’m late, was helping Bri with the baby,” he says tersely. “So, Shauna, what’s the deal?”

Shauna tucks her dark smooth hair behind her ears and straightens her blazer. “Well, I won’t lie, it’s pretty damning,” she starts, and Harry’s breath leaves him in a whoosh. Niall looks up and meets his eyes, and he’s totally stone-faced, unreadable. Harry gives him a little nod and Niall’s eyes flicker, but that’s all. She picks up the remote and changes the channel to MTV, who’s also covering the story, this time with more fan involvement. Harry watches himself grope Niall at the Billboard Music Awards, and onstage during the Where We Are tour, and at meet and greets. There’s a piano-heavy song playing over the top. The video just goes on and on. It’s kind of impressive, really.

“Is this – ”

“This is a fifteen minute compilation,” Shauna answers, fast-forwarding to the Where We Are concert footage. Harry watches himself announce “I’d do Niall” and he groans, burying his face in his palms. “One of about a thousand,” Shauna says. The TV flicks off, and Shauna sits down with a sigh.

Liam speaks up. “Then it’s just the fans, isn’t it? It’s like with Harry and Louis, it’s not real, so – ”

“We never had Harry or Louis claim otherwise,” Shauna answers softly. “It’s not just the fans this time.”

“It was a joke,” Liam argues. “Harry was obviously joking.”

“You and I know that, because we know Harry,” answers Shauna. “Everyone else, on the other hand…”

Harry groans into his hands again. “I was being deadpan, I didn’t know – ”

“Well, of course you didn’t know!” Louis snarls. “You didn’t think about anything but whether you’d look charming, and now you’ve got Niall stuck in this, too. Proper good work there, Harold.”

Harry’s temper flares. “You’re only pissed because this is your fault, too,” he shoots back, the muscle in his jaw working.

Louis scowls and opens his mouth to respond, Harry’s just preparing himself for the attack, when Niall cuts them off. “For Christ’s sake, it’s just another rumor. Let’s just do what we always do and say nothing.”

“That might work against us this time,” Shauna says, steepling her fingers on the tabletop. “We want all the focus to be on the album. Right?” she asks, looking up from under her brows at each of them in turn. It’s the same reason why Louis’s not let slip that his baby’s been born and why none of them have publicly talked about their plans for the hiatus. They all nod along.

“So we’ll deny the rumors,” Liam says reasonably. “That’ll clear it up, focus goes back on the album. Right?”

Shauna takes a deep breath. “I don’t think so,” she says delicately. “The world has pretty much decided you two,” she points at Niall and Harry, “are an item. Denying it would be – ”

“Larry, Round Two,” Louis supplies darkly. He’s still glaring at Harry, who wouldn’t mind if Louis took a swing at him right now. He needs to do something, anything.

“You want us to confirm it?” Niall arrives at the conclusion first. “Shauna.”

“A loving, committed relationship between two band members in a band known for their love songs is a lot better press than two drunk kids who can’t handle themselves, or two bandmates who have broken up and are now going on hiatus,” Shauna says.

Harry’s ears ring in the aftermath. He closes his eyes, and he suddenly remembers how tired he is, how hungover. All he wants is a fatty salami sandwich from Quiznos and a long, long nap. “Okay,” he mutters. “If Niall’s in, fine.”

Harry opens his eyes when he’s entirely, one hundred percent sure that Niall’s looking at him. His face isn’t stony, but it’s a close thing. Harry looks closely, and he thinks he sees worry on Niall’s furrowed brow and the downturned corners of his mouth. He’s not sure what else is on Niall’s face. He hasn’t spent enough time around him lately to spot all those tiny, mostly instinctive flickers of expression.

“Yeah,” Niall sighs. “Okay. Whatever.”

It’s not exactly the enthusiastic response Harry might’ve hoped for, but it’s good enough.

 

***

 

Shauna releases a statement confirming Harry’s and Niall’s relationship, and the number of paps outside his neighborhood increase threefold, and his Twitter and Instagram feeds blow up with mentions and questions. And nothing much changes, really.

In the few days between the AMAs and the ARIAs, Harry follows Niall’s example and goes ghost. It’s something he’s been getting better at over the past year or so. Jeff lends him the keys to his family’s Malibu vacation house, so Harry packs his overnight bag and slips out of the public eye somewhere between bikram yoga at Runyon Canyon and frozen yogurt.

The Azoff’s house is, as expected, both enormous and opulent. Harry calls Anne as soon as he gets in, flopping down on the nearest pool chair. The saltwater pool slopes down like a beach, and the water laps at his feet. It’s the middle of winter in California, and it feels like summer in England. That still boggles Harry’s mind a bit, that he can be so very far from home. Anne’s getting ready for bed and Harry’s just trying to figure lunch plans.

He can imagine her in her room in Holmes Chapel, the bay window overlooking the sometimes mind-numbingly endless moors. He thinks of her rubbing aloe and lavender lotion into her dry hands and for a moment, he can smell it. His mother’s lotion and her soft flowery perfume and the powdery overtones of her makeup. Taylor had smelled like that, too, makeup-y. It smelled less sweet on her. “Harry, love. How are you?”

“Good,” Harry says, sliding down the lounge chair until he’s up to his calves in the cool pool water. He half-heartedly rolls up his jeans. “There’s a hot tub and a shower in the loo,” he adds.

Anne laughs. “And your back? Have you been feeling well? How are your allergies?”

“Mum,” Harry drawls. It borders on a whine. “I’m not sick, everything’s fine.”

“Well, you don’t look well,” Anne decides. “You should sleep more. And eat more, you’ve been looking too thin lately.”

“You haven’t seen me in months,” Harry protests, digging his toe into the grout between glass tiles at the bottom of the pool. It almost feels like sand, if he ignores the smooth tile edges. “Sorry about that,” he adds, drawing his knees up toward his chest.

His mum sighs, “Oh, don’t worry about it, love. I know how it is for you. I will say I was expecting you to phone sooner, when it came out that my son was dating someone.” He can hear the teasing in her voice.

“Mum,” Harry whines again, smiling hard. “It’s just a publicity type thing, sort of. Like, it was an accident, but. Uh, the fan’s videos and stuff.”

“I’ve seen some of them. I have to say, you do fondle him quite a lot,” Anne muses. “Niall does have such a cute little bum, who can blame you?”

Harry chokes on his spit. “Mum!”

“Well!” she laughs. “I’m just saying. My little love, of course he could do worse, too.”

“Talk to me about Robin’s bloody garden,” Harry huffs, smiling.

Harry spends the next few days lounging around the Azoff’s house. He sleeps in a different bed each night because at this point in his life, it feels stranger not to. He’s tried sleeping on his bed in his house in London, which is one of those posh Serta adjustable ones. He’d had it set to the perfect number before he left for tour in the spring, but now it doesn’t feel right. Too hard. Harry had tried the softest setting, even, but. It’s just not a hotel bed.

Jeff and Xander stop by for a lads’ barbecue, and Alexa lounges out by the pool with Harry for the better part of an afternoon. “We should’ve dated,” Harry thinks aloud. “Why didn’t we date?”

“I’m too classy for you,” Alexa says drily, sipping at her mojito. She knows how to make the most delicious mixed drinks where Harry’s still adding Sprite to his vodka to make it drinkable. He takes a sip of his drink. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever had such a good pina colada, even if they were a little tipsy by the time they’d started in on them, so the kitchen is sticky with electric blue mix. Harry loves Alexa. “Anyway,” Alexa goes on, when Harry’s half-forgotten that they’d even been talking, “I wouldn’t want you to have cheated on Nialler. He’s too precious by half.”

“I wouldn’t have cheated on him,” Harry objects. He wonders how to explain this whole thing to Alexa. He’d tried, with Jeff, and Jeff had just smiled more and more as Harry went on, like Harry was telling him a proper good joke. “We would’ve been on a break.”

“We were on a break!” Alexa and Harry chorus at the same time, trying to get Ross Geller’s American inflection right. Alexa does a much better job than Harry, and he accidentally snorts some of his pina colada laughing. He dribbles alcohol out of his nose, and Alexa says, “Best of luck to him,” grimacing at Harry.

His assistant sends a car around to pick him up and take him to the airport for the ARIAs at the end of the week. The car arrives just before sunrise, when the whole world still feels like it’s sleeping. The same shade of pale grey is draped over the California hills and coast like a soft dewy blanket, and Harry thinks about taking a picture while Phil helps him load his bags. It never turns out quite right in photographs, though. Something about the color, maybe, or the feeling. Like anything could happen, or nothing.

Harry picks his head up off his hand when they exit from I-10. “Where are we going?”

“Pickin’ up Niall, too,” Phil answers, yawning behind a cup of coffee. “Shauna emailed,” he adds, like that explains it. They pull up to a Craftsman in Highland Park, and somehow Harry’s surprised when Niall comes out the front door with his Nike bag slung over his shoulder and a cap pulled low over his forehead. Bas sidles out behind him, locking the door with a set of keys he drops into his pocket. Phil slides out of the car to help Bas heave Niall’s bag into the trunk for him, and Niall clambers into the car beside Harry.

“Mornin’,” he says, rubbing at his eyes.

Harry keeps looking at him, even though he knows Niall’s just spoken to make him blink. “You have a house here?”

“Nah,” Niall answers. “Well, kind of. Was just renting it for the month, but the lease is up, so. Maybe?” He glances sideways at Harry. “Why?”

“It looks like you,” Harry says without thinking. The car starts moving again, and Harry watches this suburb of LA roll past. It’s different from the Los Angeles he’s used to, with its bright sunny sidewalks and neon lights and dark corners.

This area reminds him of the bits of Covent Garden Gemma’s shown him when he has a few days to peek into her life. Highland Park is old – for LA, anyway – and not in the best state of repair, but it looks real and earned, if that makes sense. Aged the proper way, not like the vintage storefronts Harry’s seen around Beverly Hills, with their pristine brass edges and unrusted hinges. Even Niall’s house suits him, in some way. Charming, with its little garden out front and the warm brown front door, but safe. Guarded.

“Thanks,” Niall says, like he knows what Harry’s trying to say, even if Harry himself doesn’t. “So, how d’you wanna play it?”

“Play what?”

“You ‘n’ me,” Niall answers patiently. “Didn’t you get Shauna’s email?”

Oh. That. Suddenly Harry wishes he hadn’t thumbed it open while he was waiting for the shower to get hot, seen how much text there was, and promptly closed his email app. “Maybe you could sum it up for me?” Harry asks.

“Just don’t get caught fucking anyone while we’re meant to be together and we should be fine,” Niall grins.

Harry snorts. “I should be telling you that!” he says, and in the instant before Niall’s face closes off Harry knows he’s said the wrong thing. He wants to stick his hand out and stop that door from slamming shut, but he thinks about his fingers getting crushed like that time when he was a kid and his mom’s minivan door shut on him, and he doesn’t know what to say to stop Niall from shutting him out.

They pass the ride to the airport in silence until Bas’s phone beeps. His muttered “Fuck,” comes out between gritted teeth.

“Bas?” Niall asks. “What is it?”

“Louis and Liam got here first, some fans spotted them.”

Harry might’ve mistaken the sound for thunder, except that it almost never rains in southern California. They take a back entrance into the airport like always, but that seems to have been a mistake this time, because the shrill drumming sound just keeps growing louder. Harry’s instinctively sunken in his seat, but he peeks his head up to peer out of the window. There’s a mob outside, teeming right in front of the airport doors.

“Maybe Bieber’s flying out same as us,” Harry says weakly. Niall is a light shade of green when Niall looks over, his lips pressed so tight they’ve gone bloodless.

Bas stops cursing altogether the closer they get. Phil’s slowed the car to a creep, like his foot isn’t even on the gas pedal. Bas whispers tightly, “We oughta turn back.”

Phil says, “Too late for that,” and grimly accelerates again, flicking his hazard lights on like a warning. Harry wonders if he’d really hit someone, and then he side-eyes Niall nervously biting his fingernails down to the quick, and he kind of hopes so. Like, just a bit. Not fatally.

“Airport security is coming,” Phil says, slowing the car as they approach the doors. “We can wait here until they get this sorted.”

Harry knows the moment the fans spot them, because the roaring gets distinctly louder, and closer. He draws away from the door as the fans press in, their hands and faces smeared against the windows. He bumps shoulders with Niall, who’s breathing has gone as labored as Harry’s in the middle of an asthma attack. His right hand is balled into a fist, like it always is around paps, whose camera flashes brighten the inside of the car.

Harry sets his hand atop Niall’s fist. He’s not sure what else to do but wait. Phil and Bas are both on their mobiles, their voices as tense as Harry’s ever heard them. He remembers that disastrous mistake of a PR stunt in the early days in that airport – or was it a train station? – in Paris. Or maybe it was Spain. He remembers Niall locking up in the middle of the crowd, Harry pushing him along from behind, like Niall was a human snow plow. It would’ve been so easy to just – but he doesn’t want to think of it. It makes his stomach churn nonetheless.

The first fist meets the glass with a dull thud. Then someone else joins in, and Harry feels the car shake. He reaches out and presses his hands to the glass to keep it from breaking like Liam used to when they all rode in the same car together. “Um,” Harry says. He thinks he feels the glass cracking under his hands, and he pulls his palm away with a sharp hiss when the glass fractures and opens up a cut on his hand. He looks at the bright red blood seeping across his palm. He can’t quite believe it, somehow. He unthinkingly raises his hand to Niall, and Niall’s eyes slam shut, his face going utterly white.

“Okay, we can’t stay here,” Phil decides. “We’ll have to get out and meet security in the middle.”

“Oh, God,” Niall mutters. His knuckles are bloodless, his fists are clenched so tight.

Bas unbuckles his seat belt. “Squeeze in, lads,” he says, so Niall and Harry squish together in the middle of the backseat. Bas and Phil climb back and fit themselves on either side of them, and Bas looks back at Harry over Niall’s shoulder. Niall’s eyes are still closed, but he’s got his hand wrapped around Bas’s belt, and Harry’s got his fingers tangled around Niall’s belt loop. “Ready?”

“No,” Niall says, and Bas forces the door open, displacing photogs and fans alike. Then it’s fast fast fast, or it’s meant to be, Phil pushing Harry along from the back. It’s just, there’s so many of them, and the camera flashes are so disorienting, and Harry can’t hear a thing. Someone grabs hold of the strap on his bag and Harry has to let go of Niall to duck out from under it. There goes several pairs of pants, a stick of deodorant, and one of his favorite YSL shirts.

Harry lets out a strangled sound. The crowd pushes in fast, but Niall looks round and Harry blinks, and they’re seventeen again, and this is the first time this has ever happened. Instead of being exhilarated, Harry’s frightened. Niall reaches out, uncurling his fist, and Harry grabs his hand. Their fingers lock together like a vise.

Airport security finally reaches them. They’ve formed a kind of human passageway for Niall and Bas and Phil and Harry, so they finally breach the airport proper. Everywhere Harry looks, he sees more and more LAX guards in their black uniforms swarming about like a very active beehive, and it must be weird that this is normal, right? This shouldn’t be normal.

Security deposits them in a dingy room with a metal table and tan walls, and Harry turns to Niall to ask him who they should call to bail them out of jail when he sees Niall’s face. The weak joke dies on his lips. “Niall?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Niall says, and Harry only just manages to push the aluminum waste bin over to him in time.

Harry rubs his back soothingly. “It’s okay, you’re alright, I’m sorry,” Harry babbles.

Niall spits and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you sorry for?”

Harry hesitates. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“Jet’s taxying up the runway as we speak,” Phil pipes up. “Five minutes, lads.”

“Oh, gross,” Harry murmurs, taking Niall’s hand in his. “You’ve got – I’ve bled on you, I’m sorry, that’s so gross. I’m clean, I swear, I just got tested.” He can’t seem to stop talking.

Niall slowly closes his hand. “It’s alright, Haz. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Jesus Christ,” Liam says, his sneakers squeaking on the floor as he catches himself on the doorframe. He practically bursts into the room. “We could hear the screaming from down here, are you alright?” He looks from Niall to Harry as he speaks. His hand settles lightly on Niall’s shoulder, and Harry sees his thumb press into the hollow beneath Niall’s collarbone for just a second. Harry can almost feel Robin’s hand on his shoulder when he was a lad, doing the exact same thing. Niall relaxes by a degree.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Payno, this isn’t our first rodeo,” Louis says, strolling in as casually as if they’re chilling out backstage before a concert. The corners of his mouth are tight, though, and he studies Harry and Niall closely before he dares to relax. He surges forward and grabs Niall’s hand. “What’s this, Nialler? Are you hurt?”

Niall shakes his head quickly. “No, no, ‘s not me.”

Harry waves his hand about a bit. “The window in the car, uh…” Louis still has Niall’s hand clenched in his. Harry thinks about him reaching out, wanting to inspect Harry’s wound like he would have Niall’s. He thinks about Louis weighing the odds that someone might see and take a picture, and he’s not surprised that Louis merely lets Niall go with a muttered order to go wash his fecking hands. He still feels like he’s lost something.

“You too,” Louis orders. “Liam, d’you think it needs stitches?”

Obediently, Harry offers his hand to Liam, who’s careful not to let Harry’s blood touch his skin. “No, it looks like a surface wound to me.” It’s not even bleeding anymore. “Might leave a nice scar, though,” Liam adds.

Harry shrugs, accepting the wet wipe Lou passes him when she bustles in. “Where’s Lux?”

“With her father,” Lou answers shortly. “I can’t believe the nerve of some people. Are you alright? Should we sue someone?”

“I’m fine,” Harry reassures her. “And Niall too.”

“Jet’s here,” Phil informs them, and Harry and Liam and Louis and Lou get themselves sorted to make the short trip from this holding cell to the plane.

Niall rejoins them on the surface level, surrounded by a veritable army of guards. He holds his hand out, and Harry thinks he just wants to see that Harry’s not bleeding anymore, so Harry shows him the band-aid Lou stuck on his palm. Niall doesn’t drop his hand and slowly it dawns on Harry that maybe he wants Harry to take it. Their fingers slot together and Niall presses his thumb gently against the cut on Harry’s palm. It feels like a reminder, like a promise. Of what, Harry’s not sure. There won’t be a scar on Niall’s hand, but it kind of feels like it.

 

***

 

“I don’t want to wear this,” Liam says, pulling at the cravat Tom’s just tied around his neck. “I feel like I look like a git.”

“Ooh, don’t blame that on the cravat, Payno,” Louis drawls from where he’s got his feet kicked up on the windowsill. Harry can smell his feet from where he’s sat on the armchair next to an outlet charging his phone. “Blame it on that face. Or maybe those eyebrows.”

“I love your face,” Sophia assures him. “And your eyebrows.” She pauses, then, “If you let me pluck them just the tiniest bit, they’d have a much better shape, though – ”

Louis laughs, “Oho!” and Liam sticks his leg out and tips Louis’s chair all the way back. He rolls out of the chair with a groan. “Asshole,” he grumbles, and Lottie drops a dollop of hair wax on Louis’s head.

“Your turn, big brother,” Lottie says, ushering Louis over to the bathroom for hair and makeup. “Chop, chop.”

“Can I fire you?” Harry hears Louis ask before their voices go soft and quiet.

Tom holds a shirt up under Harry’s chin, hums, then holds up the shirt in his other hand. “What do you think?” he asks.

Harry shrugs. “I – ”

“Not you,” Tom laughs. “I meant Niall.”

“Wait, are we meant to match?” Harry catches on. He raises both eyebrows at Niall, who’s got a distinctly worrisome look on his face. “Niall,” he whines.

“If you’re dating me, you’ve got to start dressing better,” Niall says smugly from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. He taps something into his phone and locks it, sliding it into his pocket. “I’ve a reputation to protect.”

Harry scowls, but it comes out closer to a smile. “I’m going to get Lux’s unicorn tattoo, just you wait.”

Niall mutters, “Can’t be much worse than some of the ones you’ve got now,” and Harry laughs, reaching over to poke his cheek.

Liam makes an odd choked sound, so Harry looks round at him. “I’ve just realized, d’you think Zayn will be here?”

“Why would he be, he’s not nominated for anything?” Louis calls from the bathroom. He still thinks he’s got hearing damage, no matter what any test says, but Harry swears he’s got bat ears when it comes to Zayn’s name.

“I’m sure we’ll spot him by his fluorescent hair,” Niall says, plucking another shirt off the rack and showing it to Tom. “Yeah?”

Tom nods. “Perfect.”

“Don’t I get a vote?” Harry says, mostly just to complain. In fact Niall’s picked the shirt Harry would’ve if he’d cared enough to sort through his options himself.

Everyone else in their hotel suite answers in unison. “No.”

Awards shows are mostly fun because of the chance to see other friends in the industry. Shauna made a point to ring him up and give him a talking-to about not groping Niall on national TV anymore, so socializing’s all Harry’s got left.

Niall’s already found the 5SOS lads and Liam and Louis are skulking about making connections, so Harry wanders around until he runs into Vance Joy, whose side-swept curls make Harry think of his own overgrown hair. Harry moves it aside almost the way he used to and thinks, for the first time in ages, about cutting it.

“Styles!” Vance says, and gives Harry a hug. He’s a good hugger. Warm and soft, and not too long or short. Harry says so, and Vance laughs. “It’s nice to see you again, too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry agrees. “Was just thinking, I really like your hair. Maybe we can form up, call ourselves the Curlies.”

“That sounds so dirty,” Vance says, his eyes crinkling up, and Harry snorts. “If music doesn’t work I’ve promised my dad I’ll make good on my law degree, so let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he laughs.

Harry’s surprised. “I would’ve done that, too, I think,” Harry says. “Could do now, I suppose. Maybe we’re fated to meet, or something.” He clutches Vance’s shoulder melodramatically. “I could love you so good,” he jokes.

Vance laughs again, because he’s kind like that. “From what I hear, you’ve already got one of those,” he says.

“Oh, yeah. Well, we should definitely hang out sometime not at an awards show. Maybe you could write a song about us. I want something like Kodaline’s ‘The One’ for my wedding,” Harry rambles. He’s never quite sure how he gets from A to B to C in a conversation, and he’s just about confused himself.

“Listen, you tell me which one you want, and I’ll dedicate one of my songs to you,” Vance says. “I’ve got to go sit down before my agent kills me, but it was nice chatting with you.”

“You, too. I’ll see you soon,” Harry says, patting him on the shoulder one last time. “Vance Joy thinks we’re soul mates,” Harry says, when he sinks back down into his seat beside Niall.

Niall’s busily tapping away on his phone, so Harry tries to crane his neck around and see who he’s talking to. Niall tilts the screen away from him. “Ha,” Niall says absently. “Told Mikey hi for you,” he adds.

“Yeah? Thanks, mate,” Harry tells him, pleased.

“We should’ve done a Live Lounge,” Liam says. He’s been doing that lately, Harry thinks, making a list of things they should’ve somehow fit into their nonstop schedule. Really Harry knows it’s a list of things he wants to do after hiatus. When the machine grinds into motion again. Harry feels tired just thinking about it, so he tries not to.

If. If it does, he tries especially hard not to think.

“Are you coming to the after party?” Liam asks.

Harry looks at Niall, who finally glances away from his phone. “Not this time, Payno. Sorry.”

Harry opens his mouth to ask Niall what he’s got planned instead, but the lights flick on and off, signaling the end of another commercial break, so he leans back in his seat. The cameras have been in his face almost all night, or over his shoulder, or in the corner of his eye. It seems pointless to Harry. There’s almost five years of recordings of the four of them sitting together, isn’t it all the same?

When the show ends and their dressing room is cleared out, their security gathered to escort them to their cars, Harry decides not to go out. Right now, all he can think about is his hotel room’s soft gold sheets and rainfall showerhead.

He and the others separate at the cars, so he takes the hotel lift alone. There’s security posted outside his hotel room door, for Christ’s sakes, and they’ve rented out the whole floor again. He tugs at his collar, loosening his tie; it’s the first moment he’s had alone since…well, does time in the loo count? Harry expects dead silence, but when he passes Niall’s room on the way to his own, he’s sure he hears someone inside.

He stops walking without meaning to. “Is Niall in there?” he asks the security guard, who’s standing with his hands clasped in front of him right in front of the door. He nods. “Can I go in?” The security guard sidles over so Harry can knock, which he does. His knuckles feel raw and sensitive, and he curls his fingers into his palm, his fingertips touching the newly formed scar.

Niall opens the door just a crack. “Harry?” he asks, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t feel like going out tonight,” Harry shrugs. “Didn’t know you had the same idea. What are you doing?” He tries to wedge his foot inside the door, but Niall’s foot is already there, blocking him. Harry palms the door, applying the gentlest pressure.

“Sorry,” Niall says. “I’m kind of busy right now. Maybe we can, like, hang out or whatever tomorrow?”

Harry frowns. Niall still hasn’t answered his question, and he opens his mouth to push when he hears someone else speak. It’s a distinctly feminine voice. Australian accent. Harry tries not to groan out loud. “Is that room service?”

“Afraid not,” Harry speaks up before Niall can shut the door in his face. With a dour look, Niall steps back and opens the door. Melly’s there, her hair in a sloppy bun. A breezy cotton dress brushes the tops of her calves. She looks lovely. Harry kind of wants to call security on her. “Hi,” he waves.

She straightens from where she’s been bent over her purse on the entertainment center, her phone in hand. “Oh. Hi, Harry,” she says, and comes forward for a hug. Harry goes stiff, patting her back just twice before she lets go. “Uh, do you want to come in? We’ve just called for food, you can, uh, join us?” She fidgets with her phone, spinning it around between her fingers.

Harry thinks about staying, just to keep her and Niall on edge. He finds he would rather eat bits of rusted metal, so he just shakes his head and smiles benignly. “No, I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’ll just see you tomorrow,” he adds, to Niall, and hurriedly aims a kiss at his cheek before he bows out. It lands on his eyebrow, just a fleeting touch, but Harry still thinks color rises to Niall’s face. “G’night.”

If Harry spends the rest of his evening sulking in the bath listening to Vance Joy’s album on repeat trying to pick his favorite song, no one has to know.

 

***

 

Harry times it so that he’s coming out of his room just as Niall leaves his. He knows Niall’s morning routine by heart, so when the shower started he set his clock to count down from thirty-nine minutes.

“Oh, hey, Haz,” Niall says. “I was just going down for breakfast, d’you wanna come?”

Harry shrugs, looking over Niall’s shoulder. “Where’s Melly?”

“She went home this morning,” Niall says. “She has a work thing today.”

“Oh.” When Niall passes him for the elevator, Harry spins on his heel and hurries to catch up. “Brekkie, yeah?” he asks, when Niall glances at him. “So how’s work going for her?” Harry asks, because he seems to have lost the ability to make himself stop talking.

Niall’s voice is only a little wry when he says, “You could’ve asked her yourself when you busted into my room last night.”

“Niall,” Harry starts. He’s not sure what he intends to say next.

“You don’t have to like it, but you don’t get to be jealous,” Niall says. He doesn’t sound accusatory or even mad. He just sounds like Niall. His eyes are steady on the numbers ticking down above their heads. “You rejected me, if I remember that one right.”

Niall’s words take away anything Harry might’ve said. He hangs his head and looks at Niall’s battered suede boots. He’s worn them on stage and on the street and it shows, but in a good way. In a lived-in way. Niall’s like that, finds something he likes and wears it or uses it, like the Master’s phone case, until it falls apart utterly.

“Sorry,” Harry says. It feels like the only thing he can say.

The elevator doors slide open, and Niall half-turns to let Harry go first. “Brekkie, right?” he says, a crooked smile on his face. Harry nods gratefully, and they step out, security flanking them on either side.

Harry slathers his toast in butter and jam even though he didn’t make it to the gym this morning while Niall goes through his phone. “What’re you looking at?” Harry asks, spewing crumbs.

“Management emailed,” Niall answers. “We’ve just got the show at San Jose and the Rockin’ Eve gig left, and then we’re. Uh. Done, I guess.”

“Done,” Harry repeats, testing it. Tasting it slowly. All he tastes is butter and strawberry preserves, so he crams another oversized bite into his mouth.

Harry’s always liked Sydney; usually that’s because he likes the hotel, and this breakfast is definitely a mark in the pro column, but what he remembers best is going out with Zayn, being chased by fans into hiding, partying together without trying to pull, just to have fun. He hadn’t known till then how much fun Zayn could be. Harry sets the rest of his toast down, his throat kind of scratchy. His allergies must be flaring up.

Niall shifts in his chair, straightening his utensils beside his plate. “Have you thought about it? About March, I mean?”

Harry shrugs. “I dunno, a bit. You?”

Niall bites the inside of his cheek, Harry can tell by the way his jaw shifts, and he wonders what Niall must think of him. He studies Niall’s throat for hickeys, but Niall’s always been good at keeping that kind of thing hidden away from the world. Not secretive, just private. “‘Course,” Niall says, but he doesn’t offer anything else.

They’d all agreed when Louis came up with the idea of voting whether or not to come back from hiatus in March not to talk about it – to let each other decide for themselves, unlike every other decision they’d made for the last five years – but Harry hates that caveat all of a sudden. He wants One Direction’s hive mind to nudge him one way or another, to be a force he can act in accordance with or against, but. This one’s up to him.

“Um,” someone says, and Harry watches Niall’s face do that thing it does for fans. It looks like the face he used to make when his knee was killing him but he couldn’t talk about it. Harry turns and finds a young girl who looks a little like Zayn, with his lovely skin and dark hair, and for a split second Harry thinks it’s Waliyha matching her brother pout for pout on the set for “Story of My Life,” but he shakes his head and it’s someone else. Jesus, Waliyha isn’t even that little anymore, she’s practically all grown up.

Security presses in and Niall waves his hand subtly, so that it also looks like he’s waving her closer. “Hi,” he says, smiling a little. “Can we help you?”

“Uh, well,” her eyes go back and forth from Niall to Harry like she can’t believe they’re real, and he remembers someone in Denmark, or was it Argentina? Anyway, someone running their fingers through his hair, and pulling back with this look of horror on her face, like she couldn’t believe herself, and she’d teared up, and he’d laughed. The memory makes Harry smile, and the girl’s eyes get stuck on him. “Can I get a photo?” she gets out in a rush.

“Sure,” Harry says, motioning her over to crouch between himself and Niall. Niall takes her phone from her trembling hands and sorts out the shot, and he passes her phone back with a smile.

“I know you’re busy and I’ve got to go but, like, I’m proud of you? Is it okay to be proud of you?” she laughs a little.

Harry looks at Niall, and Niall’s got the same thunderstruck expression on his face Harry feels on his. That happens sometimes, like when Lux was a wee little babe, and she would bust out with some brilliant observation about the world. Like the world stops for a second, and when it picks up again, it’s just a tiny bit brighter.

“Thank you,” Niall says, because he’s always been the one that’s good with his words, and she’s gone.

“I think,” Niall says slowly, when they’re in the elevator to go back to their rooms to pack their bags, “I think it’d be okay. If, you know, this was it. We’ve done alright, haven’t we?”

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve decided to vote?” Harry asks.

“No,” says Niall. He slides his key card into the door to his room and goes in, shutting the door behind him.

Harry mostly sleeps on the plane back to LA, and when he gets in, he goes straight to his bed to sleep some more.

And then we’re done, he thinks just before he drifts off.

           

***

 

San Jose’s too bright and warm, no matter how much time Harry’s spent in Southern California over the past few years. He still thinks of Christmastime as snow chains on the tires and busting his arse at least once a week slipping on that patch of ice coming out the front door.

“I missed arenas,” Niall says, fidgeting with his Britney mic. The SAP center is bizarrely, unearthly quiet at rehearsal, but that’s always what Harry thinks when one of their venues isn’t jam-packed full of screaming fans. He wonders if it’s possible to have gotten spoiled after all these years, and then he knows it is, and he has a pang of sympathy for Louis and those hearing tests. There must be something wrong with you if you never stop hearing those screams, even when they’re not happening. Like a song that you can’t get out of your head.

Liam nods, his smile bright. “Me, too,” he agrees. “Feels so small now, eh?”

“Can you believe how huge those first few stadiums felt?” Louis asks, throwing an arm around Liam’s shoulders.

In point of fact, Harry can’t. He just remembers the stage at the start of the Where We Are tour, and how incomprehensibly large it was, and how hard he’d had to work just to reach out to those first few rows, they were so spread out. And then they’d put that huge valley between themselves and the audience, and it was different all over again.

“I wonder how different clubs are,” Niall says. They’ve had a few small gigs over the years, but not on the regular. Not in the way that Lindsey Buckingham or Ronnie Wood could talk about them like earning their street cred. “Kind of feel like we missed out on something there.”

Harry studies Niall curiously. He remembers being sat in the same dressing room as Niall when Niall called into some radio show and Harry overheard him tell the DJ, “I have quite low self-esteem, that’s why I have to perform in front of forty thousand people every night, to get it up again,” or something like that, and it’s something he’s been thinking about a lot, lately. How Niall will feel when they’re not doing that anymore. How he’ll feel when they’re not doing that anymore.

“When are the 5SOS lads getting in?” Liam asks, checking his watch. They’ve just finished going over their songs for the Triple Ho Show, which Harry still can’t say without wanting to make a joke, so he’s been asked not to say it.

Niall glances down at the phone in his hand and answers, “Not for ages, maybe not even till tomorrow.”

“And the Fifth Harmony ladies?” Louis asks.

“Maybe like midnight,” Niall shrugs. “Camila says they’re taking the red-eye, gonna sleep on the way in.”

“How is it that we’ve become the most responsible band of the lot?” Liam laughs.

Louis answers dryly, “Practice.”

So the evening passes quietly. Harry returns to his hotel room and fields a bunch of emails from Jeff’s friends. Harvey Weinstein’s been after him again for a movie role, and Harry’s about to agree to a meeting with him just to get him to stop sending an email every Wednesday evening like clockwork.

When Harry gets to their dressing room the next day, he finds it jammed with members of all three bands plus Austin and Nathan. Niall’s got a guitar on his lap and he’s leading them all in a rousing rendition of “Bad Blood,” which he probably means ironically, but it still makes Harry feel a little hot under the collar.

Niall spots him and smoothly shifts the song to sing, “Oh my God, look at that face, / You look like my next mistake,” and Harry ducks his head and grins abashedly. Everyone breaks up laughing, and Harry wrinkles his nose and bares his teeth a little at Niall, who laughs harder and starts picking out the chords to “Where Do Broken Hearts Go.”

The makeup and styling teams arrive soon after, and Lou wrestles Harry into a chair in front of one of those giant mirrors with the oversized light bulbs all around it like he’s the star of some burlesque show. She’s got her hair up in a messy bun, and she seems distracted as she starts brushing his hair out, a blow dryer in her other hand. She tilts her head, and Harry blurts, “Is that a hickey?”

Lou covers the spot on her throat immediately. “No,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry can see Niall and Camilla and Lauren in the mirror’s reflection, and of course Niall has them in stitches, a grin on his own face. Harry bites the inside of his cheek and makes himself look away.

“Really?” Harry asks dubiously. “Because it looks like someone’s been using you as their personal lollipop,” and Lou whacks him round the head with the flat of the hairbrush. “Ow,” he whines.

“It’s none of your business,” Lou sniffs. She moves aside, hiding the mark Harry’s sure is a hickey with her collar, and Harry can see Niall and the Fifth Harmony ladies again. Lou tracks his eyeline. She laughs softly. “I don’t think either of them are making a move on your man, Haz.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry grumbles, and Lou sets about getting him sorted for the show.

It’s easy and practiced and natural, like it always is, on stage. Harry’s spent maybe twenty percent of the last five years on stage, if that, but all he can think about for the day leading up to the show is the show itself, whether he can hit those notes, how long he can go on about poutine for before the audience gets bored or Louis shuts him up. It’s like slipping into another life, stepping out onto the stage, and he feels invincible and immortal and inexhaustible.

He looks at Liam and Louis during the chorus of “Drag Me Down” while they do an awesome shimmery soprano echo under his and Niall’s lead, and the moment feels endless. Harry finishes the note change near the end of “Drag Me Down” and can’t help the way he sags a little in exhaustion, some of the high of the stage wearing off a little. But he’s done it, and their part of the show is over. He bows and waves and steps away from the microphone, and he feels like he’s run a marathon.

They all go out after the show. Harry draws a stool out at the bar and rests his elbows on the sticky tile, studying the drink menu. He tries to get something different every time, something local, or maybe the bartender’s personal specialty. A way of breaking up the sameness.

“You alright?” Niall asks. He has to speak directly into Harry’s ear to be heard over the thumping music, his lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear, and Harry nods. Niall’s been doing that, especially since Zayn left, like. But they’ve all been moving in on that empty space, filling it in. It’s the stuff no one else knew about that Harry misses most, though. Not just the check-ins but sitting across from Zayn on the bus from one distant American city to another, their journals open in front of them. The quietude. The zen.

“Come dance,” Niall says, so Harry lets Niall drag him onto the dance floor. The little bubble of their crew and friends swells effortlessly to include them. Niall’s instantly snatched up by the 5H girls and Luke, so Harry sets about throwing some crazy shapes just to make Liam laugh, and Liam reels him in with an arm over his shoulder and ruffles Harry’s hair, his smile a little embarrassed, a lot fond.

 

***

 

Harry runs into Louis at LAX. “Oh, fucking hell,” Louis says when he spots him in the lounge. Louis dumps his bags on the floor and in the seat next to Harry, and then Louis sits in the next one over. Not too close, but closer than Harry expected. “What the fuck are the odds?”

“I think the answer’s obvious, Lou,” Harry says without thinking. “It’s fate.”

Louis scoffs, and he leans up off the armrest nearest to Harry. “Where are you even flying to, don’t you live here now?”

“Mum and Gem still live in England,” Harry answers patiently. He can’t wait to eat Gran’s Christmas dinner until he passes out on the floor in front of the TV, and to see Jonny and all of his cousins, especially the wee ones who must be so much bigger now. “What about you?”

“Eh, same,” Louis shrugs, tucking his ticket into his laptop bag. He bends down to do up his shoelaces. An attendant comes by with complementary champagne. Louis takes a glass, so Harry plucks one up off the tray just before the attendant moves away. Louis knocks his glass back in seconds. He thinks about asking after Briana and the baby, but he’d rather not be yelled at today. “You flying into Heathrow?” Harry nods. “Looks like we’re travel buddies, then,” Louis sighs.

He consumes a steady stream of champagne until the speaker overheard comes to life with a pleasant female voice announcing that their flight is boarding, by which point Louis’s pleasantly buzzed. Harry can tell; he remembers the rim of sweat around his hairline and the croaky sound of his voice from years ago. The early days.

“Travel buddies,” Louis’s singing at a slightly inappropriate volume to the tune of “Midnight Memories,” as they board, and he sends a death glare to the bloke about to sit next to him, so Harry takes what he assumes must be Louis’s invitation and plops down beside him. “I don’t suppose you brought any snacks?” Louis all but demands. Harry has.

“This is all rubbish,” Louis whines, poking through Harry’s stock of dried apricots, raisins, and pretzels.

Harry argues, “What you eat is all rubbish, crisps and chocolate and that. You’re going to be obese,” he observes, his smile growing as Louis scowls at him. He doesn’t look away, is all. “You’re going to turn thirty and it’s all going to catch up with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Louis sniffs, unfolding the Sky Mall catalogue in front of them. “I’m never going to turn thirty.”

Three drinks for Louis later, Harry’s laughing hard enough that his stomach hurts. “Okay,” Louis says, “okay, who else should we order something for?” They’ve already got Liam a garment steamer, and Cal a transparent plastic clothes rack, and Alexander Palace eggs for Lou and Lottie.

“How about this Ark of the Covenant thing for Sophia?” Harry suggests. “Ooh, wait, that closet shoe organizer, Niall might proper like that, let’s order that for him.”

Louis cuts a sideways glance at Harry. “You do realize the point of Sky Mall purchases is that they’re meant to be stupid, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I mean, I bet he’d like it.”

“Is that your romantic Christmas gift then? Your first holiday together and you’re getting the lad a rack for his shoes? We can do better than that.”

Harry ducks his head down, pulling Louis down with him. “You know that’s not real,” he whispers.

Louis just grins wickedly, his eyes alight. His breath smells like vodka. “I know that. Do you know that?”

Exasperated, Harry asks, “What?” but Louis’s already moved on.

“I don’t think we’ve fucked with Liam quite enough yet,” he says, so Harry studies the Sky Mall catalogue some more.

“How about the camping tent?”

“Once again, Harold,” Louis slurs, “the point is not to give a heartfelt gift, you wanker.” He shoddily aims an elbow at Harry’s ribs, so Harry elbows him back.

“Wanker,” Harry replies, smiling.

Louis falls asleep about ten minutes later, not without bothering the flight attendant for half a dozen bags of peanuts, first, so Harry eases one out of his clutch and munches on them. He watches the sky over Louis’s shoulder, the shade pulled down a bit so that Louis can sleep. How many hours has Harry spent on planes or in the air in the last five years?

He wonders how hard that would be to calculate. Niall’s probably got a rough estimate stored away in his head somewhere, or on some spreadsheet in his computer. Maybe he’s got a Harry Styles spreadsheet, too, with columns for ass grabs and stupid comments and unintentionally mean things. He wonders how it adds up.

Louis wakes up with just a few hours left in their flight, and when he realizes he’s been dozing against Harry’s shoulder, he sits up and leans against the wall, instead. “Whazzup?” he asks blearily.

“You missed dinner,” Harry says. “I saved you a tray, though,” and pushes over the lukewarm meatloaf and carrots and broccoli.

“Yum,” Louis says, and tears into it.

“I’m thinking of becoming a vegetarian,” Harry says. Louis’s teeth scissor effortlessly through the meatloaf. Harry’s both impressed and a little grossed out.

Louis looks up with one eyebrow raised. “Yeah? You got that on your little list of things to do on hiatus? What else is there, get the car waxed, clip toenails?” He snorts and shakes his head.

Harry tries not to think about how close to home Louis’s hit. “What?” he demands. “Not all of us are trying to take over the world!” 

“You’d be terrible without work,” is all Louis says. “I can’t wait to watch that disaster happen.”

“I’m going to be fine,” Harry says, folding his arms across his chest and pouting a bit, staring at the seat back in front of him.

Niall or Liam might’ve indulged him. Louis snorts again, shovels another two bites of meatloaf and carrots into his mouth, and asks through his food, “Don’t suppose you saved me any dessert?”

Gemma’s there to pick Harry up from the airport. She’s left her car in the garage and everything and stands just past the security checkpoint with a little sign in her hands, “Baby Brother.” A loose ring of police surrounds them even as Harry falls into her arms, smelling her flowery perfume and hairspray and cigarettes.

“I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Gemma says, running her palms over his back soothingly. Harry sets his chin on her shoulder and spies Louis leaving with his own barrage of security; he raises a hand in farewell so Harry does, too. “C’mon,” Gemma says, tugging Harry along by his wrist.

Even though he’s been to New York and London both in the past month, he’s still surprised by the cold, how bitter and biting it is. Dirty snow is gathered against the kerb, and idling cars in line to pick up friends or family from the airport let out little streams of condensation in the frigid air. Instead of exhaust and fast food and sunscreen, Harry smells snow and ozone and those intentional bonfires at the park to clear dead plants out for new life in the spring. London feels a world away from LA.

Mini-cabs and buses line the street outside the airport, lots of them headed for the nearest train station or bus station, and Harry thinks about being able to take a train or a bus somewhere. Walk on, stow his own bags, find his seat. Not have to worry about whether it was aisle or window except which he preferred. He thinks about walking through an airport without half an army.

“So,” he says, pulling the seatbelt over his chest while Gemma starts the car. “How’ve you been? What’s going on?”

Gemma shrugs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She’s gone back to a natural hair color, but Harry still looks at her expecting lilac. He’s missed having her on tour with him this go-round. God, what even would he have done if she hadn’t been there on the Asian leg? “Same old, same old,” she throws a grin at him.

“How’s the column doing?” Harry asks. She’s told him a little about it, here and there, he thinks. They’ve been so busy pushing the last album that he doesn’t really remember the last time he and Gemma have had a proper catch-up. 

“Eh,” Gemma shrugs again. Gemma flicks the blinker on and changes lanes without checking her blind spot. The car behind them slams on their horn. “It’s a good job,” she says finally. She smiles at Harry. “I like writing. My coworkers are really nice, one in particular.”  

Harry nods. He likes writing, too. Maybe that’s what he’ll do on hiatus, just write nonstop. “Good.”

It’s a three hour drive from Heathrow to Holmes Chapel. Gemma’s backseat houses her travel bag and Harry’s case and a heap of presents. Harry’s yet to begin his shopping this year; he probably should’ve gotten to that sooner. Gemma heeds Harry’s request to listen to Vance Joy’s album, although she turns it off when Harry tries to let it loop around and play again.

“What is it with you and this album?” Gemma laughs, swatting his hands away from the console.

Harry sniffs. “Vance said he would dedicate a song to me. I’m trying to pick which one I want.” He’s leaning toward “Best That I Can” at the moment.

“Didn’t Taylor already dedicate ‘Riptide’ to you?” Gemma asks. Harry pinches her arm, and she punches him in the knee, laughing. She slides her own Years and Years CD into the player, instead, and Harry tips his head back and lets the beat fill up his bones.

They stop a couple times along the way for snacks at a gas station, where Harry only has to pause for a few pictures, and at Nando’s. Harry texts Niall a picture of his peri peri chicken and chips just to make him jealous, and Niall texts the picture back to him. Confused, Harry squints, and then he spots Niall blue jeans under the table rather than his own black ones, and the very hint of a pair of battered Supras. “Great minds !” Harry’s phone buzzes with Niall’s next text.

Somehow, knowing that Niall’s eating dinner at the same moment even though he’s probably in Dublin or Mullingar or London makes him inordinately happy. “What’re you grinning like that about?” Gemma asks. “Who is it?” she asks next, spotting the phone in his hand. Harry quickly locks the screen, leaning away from her.

“None of your business,” he says, and Gemma grabs for his phone. “Hey!”

“Oh!” Gemma laughs, grabbing for the phone again. The car swerves into oncoming traffic and Harry yelps, so Gemma straightens the car out again. “Just let me see it!” she laughs, and plucks the phone out of his grasp.

Harry’s not too worried. He’s locked it, and she doesn’t know – “Hey! How do you know my password?”

“It’s been my birthday for the past five years, you’re not likely to change it,” Gemma laughs. “Aw,” she coos, glancing down at the screen and back up at the road. Harry takes his phone back quickly, before she can kill them both. Maybe they should’ve had Anne teach them to drive, rather than Robin. “My little brother’s got a boyfriend.”

Harry huffs. “It’s Niall, and it’s just pretend,” and then he wonders how his life has come to this. “D’you think that makes Niall my winter girlfriend this year?” Harry asks. “I don’t want people to say that about him.”

“It’s pretend,” Gemma drawls, patting Harry’s knee.

“My babies,” Anne croons when she opens the door to Harry and Gemma on her doorstep, having a bicker about who has to sit through their great-grandmother’s rambling this year at Christmas dinner. Harry’s sure that he did it last year, it must be Gemma’s turn. Anne pulls both of them into a hug, knocking their heads together a bit by accident. “Come in, come in, out of the cold,” Anne says, ushering them inside.

It’s always so weird to come back to this house after having been away. This is the house he grew up in – or, at least, after that he started his teens in – and his room still looks like he might be fourteen. There’s a Temper Trap poster on the wall, and his school calendar from 2009 still hangs between the door and the sliding mirror that moves aside to reveal his closet. He’s got so many suits in storage here. He wonders if the pinstripe one from the Brits Fashion awards is in here, somewhere. The pinstripes were red, right? Maybe he’ll wear it to midnight mass.

Harry sets his bag on the bed. His bed has his old comforter on it, the cotton soft and worn, with those little pills that he’d always meant to shave off with a razor like you have to do with a sweater sometimes, like Cara showed him. He’d never gotten around to it. Somewhere in here, Harry knows, there’s the Stevie Wonder CD he listened to maybe a hundred times in preparation for the X-Factor. There might even be a White Eskimo demo buried amongst the CD mix tapes he and his school friends used to exchange.

“Hm,” Anne hums from the doorway.

“What?” Harry asks, self-consciously.

Anne smiles. “It’s like watching my big grown-up son trying to fit into his twelve year-old suit,” she says. Harry groans, remembering that. He’d never been too tall, so he hadn’t believed Anne that he’d had a growth spurt, and. Well, it was pretty embarrassing to be walked in on laying on the floor, trying to get the suit pants over his hips. Not the worst Harry’s ever been embarrassed, but not his proudest moment, either.

“I look like my own father,” Harry says, as Anne comes forward to wrap her arms around him. “Like, a fan brought a poster of me when I was sixteen to Good Morning America, and it was like. I could be my own dad,” Harry rambles.

Anne laughs against his shoulder. “You don’t look quite that old yet, my little love.”

“Feels it,” Harry mutters, cupping the back of his mum’s head. He can feel the shape of her skull, and her breath against his shirt, and he closes his eyes, because she’s really here. He’s really here.

Anne enlists Gemma’s help (not helpful) and Harry’s help (very helpful, if he does say so himself) preparing chicken pot pie for dinner, and Harry very carefully does not nick himself slicing carrots to go into the pie crust with peas and chicken and broth. Robin gets home from work as the sun sets over the moors, fresh snowflakes dusted over his shoulders and his balding head.

They play Scrabble, Anne and Gemma growing more and more competitive as Harry and Robin quietly cooperate to stay out of the line of fire. Anne wins by a landslide, like usual. She assigns the losers chores. Robin and Gemma stand side by side at the sink to wash the dishes, so Harry carries the trash to the end of the long driveway. He’s careful not to let it drag on the ground and rip open, and he heaves the plastic bag into the bin. The clouds are thin and cottony, like fabric stretched too far, or a pair of jeans artfully distressed. Fresh snow powders Harry’s hair, smelling of ozone and precipitation and Christmas.

Harry wants to tell someone about it. Like, being home and with his family, and losing at Scrabble, and how everyone’s the same but slightly different, and if they are, he must be, too, but he’s not sure how, or in what way. He wants to ask. He slips his phone out of his pocket and texts Niall the link to a Walk the Moon song.

Four minutes later, Niall texts back, “Growing up is a heavy leaf to turn”.

Harry smiles, stows his phone, and goes back inside, where Anne will have taken over for Gemma and Robin, and he can stretch out in front of the TV and fall asleep with his family curled up on the couch behind him.

 

***

 

Shauna rings Harry two days later. He jerks awake, his torso slipping off the edge of the bed. His legs are tangled in the comforter, and he catches himself on the warm wooden floor, unable to push himself back up. Harry sinks to his elbows, trying to kick out of the comforter without falling all the way off the bed. “Wha?”

“Go on a date,” Shauna says.

“I’ve been on a date,” Harry objects. “Last month, with – ” Jeff’s model friend, what was her name? He can picture her face clearly, it’s just, names. He’s never been the name guy.

Shauna cuts him off, anyway. “No, I mean with Niall. You’re in a relationship, remember? That’s kind of hard to do if you never see each other.”

Harry slides down a bit more, so that he’s lying on his back with his legs still stuck up on the bed. He’s quite comfy. He could go back to sleep like this. “I saw him, like. Uh.” Two weeks ago? Three?

“Yeah,” Shauna says, “that’s what I thought,” and hangs up on him.

Harry doesn’t go back to sleep, but only because he has to pee so bad. He beats Gemma into the loo by a hair, closing the door in her face, and he laughs while she smacks the door and calls him a wanker. He washes his hands and his face, and then he goes downstairs for tea. Anne’s sat at the table with the newspaper, so Harry sits down caddy-corner to her at the table, studying the reflection of her breakfast plate in her reading glasses.

“You’re up before noon for once,” Anne observes. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

As a matter of fact, Harry went for a run at four a.m. The cold cut through his athletic clothes and fleece jacket, and his trainers will probably never be the same, but there’s nothing like running cross-country. It’s like flying. And he always sleeps so good after. “The best,” Harry says.

“What’ve you got planned for the day?” Anne asks, shaking out the paper a bit so that it rustles. Harry’s always loved that sound. Maybe they can sample it for a song someday.

Harry sneaks himself a bite of Anne’s toast. She smiles at him over the top of her glasses. “Shauna called, so I guess I’ve got dinner plans with Nialler.” Harry shrugs. He should probably call him, figure that one out.

“He’s always welcome to come here,” Anne suggests distractedly, her pen moving over the crossword puzzle now. Harry waits to see which word she writes, and then he realizes she’s just pretending to be busy, so he scowls.

“Alright, alright, I’ll invite him.” Harry goes back upstairs to fetch his phone. Liam’s left a message in the group chat saying, “Lads there r so many kinds of diamonds,” so Harry’s shaking his head with a smile on his face when he taps Niall’s name from his favorites list.

Niall answers mid-laugh. “‘Lo?”

“Hey,” Harry says. “What are you doing?”

“Eh,” Niall says, coughing to smother the rest of his laugh. The line goes quieter, like Niall’s pressed the receiver to his jumper to muffle the sound. Harry thinks he hears Niall shouting for everyone to shut the hell up. “Just the lads,” Niall answers, holding the phone to his mouth again. It’s more subdued on his end now, like maybe he’s in a different room.

Harry checks the clock on his wall. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning.”

“It’s Ireland,” Niall answers patiently. Harry can hear the smile in his voice, and he smiles back without thinking.

“D’you want to come over? Mum’s got a roast going for dinner, and I’ve already lost at Scrabble, so you won’t have to play.”

Niall asks, “You mean come to Holmes Chapel?”

“If you want to. I can meet you in Dublin, if you want. Where are you, anyway?”

“Mullingar,” Niall answers easily. “You won’t believe how big Theo is now. He, like, talks an’ everything. Keeps asking me for a biscuit, I hate saying no,” Niall laughs.

Harry’s seen the pictures that Denise posts of him on Instagram. The one of his first day at school almost made Harry cry, he’d looked so cute. “I’d love to see that.”

“I can come to you,” Niall almost seems to be thinking aloud. “There’s a private airport not far from here, can do it easy. This is for Shauna, right? The pretend dating thing?”

Oh. Yeah. Harry had almost forgotten. “Yeah.”

“Probably shouldn’t go under the radar, then. I’m sick of Heathrow,” Niall sighs.

“Fly in today. We’ll get papped in town tomorrow, you can help me with my Christmas shopping,” Harry suggests.

Niall laughs. His voice sounds raspy, like he’s been using it a lot, and Harry wants him to say yes. “Alright,” Niall agrees. “Why the fuck not?”

Niall’s flight touches down just a couple of hours later. Gemma’s come with Harry to the Liverpool John Lennon Airport, which she takes a picture of. Harry’s in the shot at the driver’s wheel, the airport speeding by while Harry navigates them to the international terminal. They check in with the airport’s security, whom Phil or Bas or someone has already contacted, so Harry and Gemma get waved through to pick Niall straight up off the tarmac.

“Gemma!” Niall greets them, sliding into the back seat. He pulls Harry’s sister into a hug. Harry huffs, and Niall laughs, leaning forward to pinch his cheek. “Harold,” Niall snorts. “Nice choice of airport, incidentally.”

“Was going with a Beatles theme for this Insta post,” Gemma admits, applying different filters to the shot.

Niall tilts his head, leaning out of his seat to look at it. Harry wants to tell him to put his seat belt on, for Christ’s sakes. “Shouldn’t I be in the picture? Like, wouldn’t that make more sense?”

“My brother’s giant head is too big for you to fit in the shot,” Gemma says, and Harry drawls, “Hey!” indignantly.

Niall laughs. “It’s a good thing we couldn’t have kids. Can you imagine your giant bobble head and my chicken legs?”

“I love your chicken legs,” Harry objects mildly, fishing around the dashboard for a different CD to pop into the player. This car is set up for Bluetooth but Harry hasn’t figured out how to pair his phone to it yet, so he’s been listening to his mum’s collection of CDs. She’s got the Beatles’s White Album, and “I Will,” which was her wedding song. Harry only cries every other time he listens to it.

Gemma just rolls her eyes, closing the Instagram app without uploading anything. “So, what do you boys want to do?”

“I’m hungry,” Niall says, at the same time Harry says, “Niall’s hungry,” so they drive around for a bit looking at their options. “Where was it we ate that one time, with the squid, and it was still alive?” Niall asks. “Could go for some of that right now.”

“Thailand?” Harry guesses. “You’d know better than me. I think my New Year’s resolution is going to be to go vegetarian,” he informs them.

“Hah!” Niall scoffs. Harry whines. “No, no, I mean, good for you. Let’s stop for steaks then, before you cut yourself off.” Niall Googles steakhouses in the area and calls ahead to ask for a private table.

Harry parks the car, and he and Niall and Gemma walk into the Meet Argentinian Steakhouse, which Harry is pretty sure Niall has selected for the name alone. It’s nice inside, with black leather seats and polished wooden floors. It’s not quite the kind of place that any of them would have chosen – Niall might’ve preferred a local pub, Harry’s been craving sushi, and Gemma lives on health food – but it’s nice, somehow, to have met in the middle, sort of.

“Nice,” Gemma just says, sliding into the leather booth curved in a half-circle around a table. It faces the kitchen doors, and every time a server goes in or out Harry catches sight of the industrial stove, cooks in their white frocks and drooping white hats. They’re like little snapshots of these peoples’ lives. Without really thinking about it, Harry takes a couple of pictures of it, the flash off, not wanting them to notice him. Maybe he would’ve been a candid photographer if he hadn’t joined the band.

Niall studies the drink menu. “They’ve got that ale you like, Haz,” he observes. “How can we be so close to Ireland and they’ve not got Guinness? A crime, that,” he mutters.

“I think our perception of close has changed over the years,” Harry tells him. He’s been thinking about it lately. “Like, I don’t think we’re meant to think of Oslo as being quite close to us, but.”

“If it’s less than a six-hour flight,” Niall nods along.

“If it’s closer than LA,” Harry adds, and Niall laughs.

The server comes to take their order, so Harry has an ale and salmon, ignoring Niall’s protests that steak’s what they’ve come for, and Gemma has a salad.

“Nutters, both of you,” Niall shakes his head.

“I’ll say!” Gemma laughs. “D’you know my brother’s obsessed with that Vance Joy album? He plays it non-stop.”

Niall looks up at Harry curiously. “You’re still on about that?”

Harry shrugs. “I’ve been listening to Barbra Streisand, too. Why’d we stop doing covers at our concerts? Liam could’ve done a great ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’”

“Can you imagine Leemo covering that after he broke up with Danielle?” Niall laughs. “Weepy buzzed-head Liam singin’ about happy days, I don’t think so.”

Their food arrives, and Gemma sets about loading her fork up with as much salad as will possibly fit on the tines before cramming the entire thing into her mouth. “How do you eat like that?” he ponders.

“You Styles’ve got the mouth for it,” Niall says, through his own mouthful of steak and mash, “‘s better than the way you eat, anyway. I hate watching you eat.”

“What’s wrong with the way I eat!” Harry demands. He’s got just the right amount of salmon balanced next to his steamed rice. The perfect ratio, the perfect bite. What’s wrong with that?

Niall shakes his head. “Worse than Theo with his baby spoons, just shove it in there and clean up after,” he recommends.

Harry sniffs. He maybe eats slowly so he doesn’t spill, so what? “I am not a child, Niall,” he merely says, and eats his damn meal the way he wants.

“Here,” Niall says, thrusting his fork in Harry’s face.

Harry rolls his eyes. “If this is your way of showing me how to eat, I – ”

“No, you idiot,” Niall says, “it’s to try. So you know what you’re missing when you’re eating nothin’ but leaves and frozen yogurt next year.”

So Harry lets Niall feed him the bite of steak, and it’s got twice as much sodium and half the vitamins as the salmon Harry’s ordered, but it’s still good. Niall’s right. Harry will miss it. Gemma lowers her phone with a devious expression on her face, and Harry frowns. “We agreed not to take pictures of each other eating, it never looks good,” he reminds her. He’s got tons of shots of her eating In ‘n’ Out in California last year just waiting to go out.

“You should be thanking me,” Gemma says instead, showing them the picture. Niall and Harry lean in together to see it. to Harry looks goofy, as expected, but Niall’s got a fond little half-smile on his face, everything soft and intimate in the low lighting, and Harry has to agree.

“Post it,” Niall suggests. “It’ll make Shauna happy, right?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry swallows again and nods. “Yeah, right, right.”

“Sgt. Pepper’s on hiatus,” Gemma captions it. It gets twenty thousand likes in six minutes.

 

***

 

Niall is sat down across from Anne when Harry stumbles downstairs to breakfast the next morning. Their heads are bent together over the newspaper, their voices a soft murmur as they work out the clues to a crossword puzzle. Harry pauses in the doorway to watch them together. It’s like time slows down, or stops flying by too fast, and he tries to catch his breath. That’s his mum. That’s one of his best friends. This could be quite normal.

“You look like you’re trying to think,” Gemma says, from where she’s been leaning, unnoticed, against the counter with a cup of tea in her hand. Her long fingers curl around an SHU mug, and she taps her thumb against the rim of the cup when she catches Harry looking. “Should probably give it a break before you hurt yourself,” she adds.

It takes Harry a moment to figure out what she’s on about, and then he scowls, stomping across the kitchen in his socks to take his own mug down from the cabinet and fill it with tea from the kettle on the hob. He pulls out the chair next to Anne and she curls her arm over his shoulders, her hand pressed to the side of his face, her thumb stroking his hairline soothingly.

“Your daughter’s bullying me,” Harry tells her.

Anne clucks her tongue and starts, “Now, Gemma,” even though Harry can feel her shoulders jumping with laughter.

Niall kicks Harry’s leg under the table. “Such a mummy’s boy,” he muses, his eyes still on the puzzle. “Oh, Anne, here, I think this would be ‘nefarious.’”

“My favorite member of this family is Robin,” Harry announces, leaning more of his weight on his mum. “Where’s he at, anyway?”

“Work, love.”

“Work?”

Niall glances up, his eyes the most familiar thing in the world. “You know, that thing normal people do five days a week?”

Harry frowns. He could’ve sworn today was a Saturday, so he’s either a day ahead or a few days behind. He’s not sure which is worse.

Anne’s hand cups Harry’s forehead, and she frowns a bit. “Are you sure you feel quite well, darling? You look peaked, and you slept so late.”

As a matter of fact, it’s only about eight-thirty in the morning, but Harry did go to bed just after eight o’clock last night. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open for dinner, just left Niall with Gemma and Anne and Robin and passed out on the couch in the den with his socked feet kicked up on the arm of the sofa.

Of course, he’d woken up again at about three-thirty and been unable to go back to sleep. He put on running gear but got sidetracked on his way out by the door to his old room, which Niall left ajar. Harry’s own mother made him give up his room to “the honored guest” so that Niall wouldn’t have to look at the museum of Harry-related stuff Anne had curated over the past few years. “Get enough o’ that just looking at his mug all the time,” Niall had laughed.

So Harry wandered into the guest room, the plush white carpet crushing softly beneath his trainers. Anne has heaps of magazines stacked up against the wall, the life-size posterboard cut-outs of Harry from different album eras watching him as he picked up a magazine at random.

It was an issue of Cheshire Life; Anne’s marked the article about Harry, so the glossy pages automatically slip open to her sticky note bookmark. Harry looked at a picture of himself in that pinstripe suit – he knew the stripes were red, ha! – in a list of thirty “powerful” people. He wondered if the editors know he’s spent about two weeks in Cheshire in the past year and a half. Maybe. It probably doesn’t matter.

It’s just. He saw himself in the glossy pages of this 12.95 pounds sterling monthly, and he looked like a young millionaire. It’s – not that it’s not true, but – can it be true, and yet not the whole truth? Harry set the magazine down and left the room, closing the door behind him. When he put his headphones on and let Stevie Nicks crooning “Edge of Seventeen” lead him across the moors, he put as much distance between himself and the room full of magazines as possible. He tried not to think of it as running away.

“Think I’m stuck on LA time,” Harry shrugs. “I’m sure it’ll wear off.”

“Well, no napping today, and no going to sleep before ten o’clock at the earliest,” Anne orders him. “That jetlag will drive you mad if you don’t get it sorted.”

Niall’s just been watching him this whole time. Harry finally meets his eyes, and Niall doesn’t look away. He picks at the crusts of his toast on the white china plate in front of him. Anne’s using the mug with the “G” on it, and Niall’s got the “H” one. His tea’s black, unlike Anne’s milky English breakfast, just like he always takes it. Without thinking about it, Harry reaches across the table and wraps his fingers around Niall’s knobbly wrist. Niall stops crumbling his toast into nothing, so Harry presses his thumb into his pulse point for just a second before he lets go.

Harry swallows. “Yes, mum.”

“Works out well, anyway,” Niall adds, his cheeks ever-so-slightly flushed, like a delicate layer of frost across a window. “We’ve got Christmas shopping to do today.” Harry groans; he’d almost forgotten, and he’s hopeless at shopping for other people because how do you know what someone wants if they don’t tell you, and Harry’s never around for those absent-minded “Ooh, I love that blouse,” at the shops, and he fully intended to lounge around the house in his trackies and socks. Maybe a Monopoly game later, Niall’s quick brain and hands slipping him illicit cash as the banker.

Niall just rolls his eyes. “I called security, as well, they’ve got a couple of blokes meeting us at the shops.”

“Phil couldn’t come?” Harry asks. Not that these other guys can’t do their jobs, but it feels less like security when it’s Basil or Phil, guys they’ve known since before they could legally drink in America. More like going round with a mate. “Or Bas?”

“On holiday,” Niall shrugs. “On the upside, they won’t make you hold your own bags,” he points out, and Gemma chokes on her tea, she laughs so hard. Harry shoots her a dark look and takes a prim sip of his tea. It tastes a little too sweet.

Niall lets Harry drive them to Liverpool, although he does take command of the radio. “Get yer hands away from the CD player, Styles,” Niall growls, swatting Harry’s hand. He tunes them to a pop/rock station, so of course it’s only a matter of time before one of their own songs rotates up. “I almost wish this was ‘What Makes You Beautiful,’” Niall says, tipping his head back while “Drag Me Down” blasts out of the speakers.

“That was a long time ago,” Harry says. It feels like a different life.

“Nah,” Niall answers. “That was no time at all.”

Harry sneaks a look at him, Niall’s chin tilted up, his throat bared. His skin is pale and unmarked, his veins tracing pale blue-green lines from his heart. He’s got five o’clock shadow on his jaw, and his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, his eyes fluttering open. Harry looks away. “Was Up All Night your favorite album, then?” Harry asks.

Niall shakes his head. “Like Four best, I think,” he decides aloud. “‘S like, there was a bit of all of us on that record, y’know?”

“You didn’t write on that album, though,” Harry objects.

“Didn’t stop you from writing about me,” Niall says, propping his head up on his hand, his gaze trained on the view outside the window. It’s mostly fields, gas stations and mom and pop shops interspersed here and there. Harry thinks about playing “Moo Cow” with his sister on long road trips, screaming the words out the window and counting how many cows turned their big bovine heads. Harry almost always won.

Harry’s palms instantly go slick with sweat against the steering wheel. He’d known, and Niall had known, and he’d known Niall had known, but they’d never talked about it except Niall telling the world that “Where Do Broken Hearts Go” was his favorite song on the album. “I’m sorry,” Harry says. He’s not quite sure what else to say.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Niall sighs, fidgeting with the air vents so that Harry gets another blast of cool air. “I did love it. For real, like,” he adds.

Harry squeezes the steering wheel compulsively, like it’s a batch of biscotti he’s rolling out to cut and bake. _Sorry I put it in a song_ , Harry wants to say. _Sorry I could never say it to your face_.

Seems like Niall knows, though. He’s always done that, met Harry in the middle when he couldn’t quite make it all the way.

“Which one’s your favorite?” Niall asks, leaning his head against the window while he looks at Harry. Harry can feel Niall’s eyes on him, and it makes him feel prickly and hyper-aware of his overgrown curls and the spots on his face and the way the cuffs of his favorite sheepskin coat have gotten dark and grimy with how much he’s worn it. “Of our albums, I mean.”

Harry bites his lip. “‘Midnight Memories,’” he answers. “It was, like, looking back, from that one, you can see where it was all headed, you know? Like everything was coming together on that record.”

“You think?” Niall asks, tilting his head a bit.

Harry shrugs, then nods. “Yeah, I mean. That tour was top, don’t you think?”

“Ah,” Niall hums, slumping more against the door.

“What?” Harry asks, chancing a glance at Niall, whose lips are pulled up in a little smile. Harry feels his dimples crease in reply. “What are you smiling about?”

Niall just shakes his head. “Keep your eyes on the road, Styles.”

For some reason, with the wheels humming over the road and Don Henley singing how sometimes you’ve just gotta let it ride, the drive feels like flying.

Security meets them at Lark Lane. The sky is steely gray and threatening snow, and some of the shop windows are strung up with fairy lights or green Christmas garlands, everything muted and soft in the dulled sunlight. Harry can smell exhaust and that wintry ozone smell of snow and hot coffee, and he pauses for a moment on the sidewalk, his hand on the car door, to take it in. “Smells like home,” he tells Niall, surprised by it.

Niall zips up his dark blue parka, his eyes the color of ice. “It’s a good smell,” he offers. “Where do you wanna start?”

Harry looks up and down the street. The shopping center is bursting with curio shops and vintage stores and antiques, and suddenly it’s overwhelming, the need to buy a gift for everyone he knows. “Maybe we should just go home,” Harry says. “Make up a list or something, and come back.”

Snorting, Niall shakes his head and holds his hand out to Harry. He doesn’t have a list, that’s what he’s just said, what is Niall – ? “Hold my hand, Haz,” he rolls his eyes, so Harry clasps Niall’s hand with his. It’s only a few seconds later that they shuffle about, slotting their fingers together. Harry looks at Niall curiously. “You’re dating me, remember? ‘S for Shauna?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“So, who do we have to find something for?” Niall asks, nudging Harry onto the kerb. He sets a casual pace down the sidewalk, his chin tilted down, his face mostly obscured in the shadow of his snapback. Harry takes notes, and tries to look more inconspicuous in his own beanie and sunnies.

Harry furrows his brow. “Uh, Mum and Gemma, of course, and Granny and Grandpa, and I s’pose Robin and Des, as well,” Harry sniffles, rubbing at his running nose. “I might be forgetting somebody.”

Niall gives Harry a disbelieving look. “Last year you had all this done before we were even done with promo, what happened?”

Harry shrugs. “Just crept up on me, I guess, I don’t know. Have you finished your shopping?”

Niall thumbs at the cross tattoo between Harry’s fingers. “For the most part, yeah. You know my family doesn’t really do gifts, anyway. Just so long as I bring a bottle of mead to Christmas dinner, I should be fine.”

“But surely you’ve got to get something for Theo, he’s just a little lad. You didn’t get presents, growing up?” It sounds unbearably sad to Harry, Niall not being shown how much he’s loved.

“How’s this come back around on me?” Niall laughs disbelievingly, glancing almost nervously over his shoulder. Two security guards are there, but there’s more up and down the street, just waiting to be called on. Sometimes Harry’s life feels like a spy film. “Let’s stay focused on you, eh?”

Niall keeps Harry focused through an antique furniture store, where they find a lovely reading lamp for Gemma’s bedside table, and a curio shop, where they find a lovely tea service for Harry’s nan, and to a vintage book shop specializing in out-of-print books. The fanciest books are kept locked up behind a glass partition, but security’s come ahead and name-dropped Niall and Harry, so they’ve got the shop to themselves and the storeowner waiting to see what they’ll want. Niall starts picking at the cuticle of his thumb with his index finger, so Harry drags him over to the partition and clouds up the glass wall with his breath.

Harry’s not had as much time as he would’ve wanted to read for the past few years, so most of the gilt names lettered onto the spines of the books are unfamiliar to him. Browning, Pope, More. He does recognize one, though, although he doesn’t remember where from until Niall turns aside to answer a text on his phone. _All experience is an arch wherethro’ / Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades / For ever and forever when I move._

“What was that?” Niall asks, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Harry’s already spotted the name at the top of the texting app, though. His stomach curls.

“My mum read it to me on a phone call once, I made her repeat it like three times so I could write it down in my journal,” Harry answers. “I’m pretty sure it’s that guy, Tennyson,” he says, pointing at the book.

The bookseller smoothly interrupts, “Yes, that’s a first edition _Idylls of the King_. That’s quite a rare find, you must have a good eye,” he adds. Niall jabs Harry in the ribs with his elbow before he can preen. “Gustave Doré did illustrations and made the folio,” he adds. Harry nods like he knows who that is. “It is one of the pricier items in our selection.”

“I’ll take it,” Harry shrugs, his eyes trained on the book. Anne’s going to love it. Gemma’s going to be _so_ jealous.

“I don’t mean to – are you quite sure?” the bookseller asks, his voice airy, straining not to be hopeful.

Harry nods. “Sure. Do you do gift-wrapping?”

“I – no?”

Maybe Niall will help, Harry thinks, looking at him sideways. Niall’s not looking back at him, though; in fact, he looks almost uncomfortable.

The bookseller wraps the book in protective brown paper and rings them up. Harry sets his card on the counter and watches Niall shift from foot to foot. Harry can’t think of what he’s done wrong. He puts his card back into his wallet and hands the book over to security. The guy with Gemma’s lamp lets out an exasperated huff, and Harry follows Niall out of the shop.

“Well,” Harry starts, looking at Niall out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t get why Niall won’t look at him. The sky is darker and grayer than before, and Harry tastes the metallic tang of incoming snow. It makes him shiver. He spots a café and suggests, “Shall we take a break, then?”

“Sure,” Niall shrugs, leading the way over to the Moon & Pea. Inside, the café is bright and warm; the chairs at the wooden tables are all different colors, and the air smells of coffee and sugar and warm bread. Harry’s stomach rumbles, and he realizes how hungry he is. There’s only a few other patrons inside at the moment, a handful of elderly people sat around the largest table and a few couples in their late twenties or early thirties. Harry can hear Niall’s assessment before he squeezes Harry’s wrist and mutters, “Hipster.”

Harry hip-checks him and sweeps over to an open table, or he would, if he hadn’t stumbled over the leg of a chair and more or less fallen into an open seat in the table adjacent.

“We’ll just pretend that was intentional, then,” Niall says, sitting across from him. He pulls his snapback off and runs a hand through his soft flat hair, security settling down in the tables around them, like a protective barrier. Harry leans back and taps the nearest guard on the shoulder to tell him lunch is on him, everyone should eat.

“What?” he asks, when he’s sitting back up. Niall has an open menu in front of him but he’s not looking at it; he’s looking at Harry, his eyes icy and piercing. Niall never looks at Harry like he wants to hurt him, but he could, and Harry nervously taps his fingers on the table.

Niall closes his menu. “That book was a thousand pounds,” Niall tells Harry.

“Oh,” Harry says. “Well, I – we sold enough concert tickets to afford that, didn’t we?”

“Haz,” Niall says softly. Like Harry’s a fool or something, but he doesn’t get it, doesn’t get what Niall’s driving at. He just thought maybe Niall would think it was a nice gesture, why’s he mad at him? “You know that, like, normal people don’t do that, right?”

Harry sets his jaw. He knows he’s going on the defensive, but he can’t stop himself from saying, “Sorry you didn’t get any Christmas presents growing up, but you don’t have to be such a Grinch.”

“Right,” Niall says, sitting back in his seat. He folds his arms across chest. “You’re acting like a twat.”

“Me! What did I do?” Harry asks. He twists his napkin around his fingers for something to do with his hands.

“You’re acting like a – like a pop star,” Niall says.

“I am!” Harry answers. “We are, or don’t you know that?” Distantly, he thinks he sees some of the other restaurant patrons turn to look at them. He can’t bring himself to care.

Niall’s jaw works. “What’s Gemma got for your mum, Harry? Because I guarantee it didn’t cost a thousand pounds. What’s your mum meant to do on Christmas day opening presents when Gem’s got her a sweater from ASOS because she’s doing her starter job right now, and her little brother’s too fucking up his own ass to notice that she hates it?”

Harry’s mouth moves wordlessly. “She…what?”

Niall rakes his fingers through his hair again. When he speaks again, his voice is low and quiet. Resigned, maybe. “For Christ’s sake, I don’t know, don’t ask me.”

“I…” Shame boils up hot and fast, and it makes Harry’s chest hurt. “I just wanted, like.” _You_ , he thinks, but can’t say. He squeezes his eyes shut, because he doesn’t want to see Niall looking at him that way.

“Oh, for the love of,” Niall says softly. “Don’t cry, okay? I’m sorry. I’m just – hungry. We should eat.”

Harry mumbles, “Yeah, sure.” He and Niall sit mostly in silence until the waiter comes to take their order, and then they’re quiet when he comes back to drop off Harry’s salad and Niall’s sandwich. He picks at the romaine lettuce with his fork, keeping his eyes down. He can’t stop thinking about Gemma in the car the day she picked him up from the airport. Used to, he’d have picked up on stuff like that in an instant. When did he stop noticing that his own sister was unhappy?

While they were waiting for the food to come, Niall pulled his phone out, and he shows his Twitter feed to Harry now. “Shauna will be happy,” he says. He and Harry have been photographed with their hands entwined and shoulders pressed together. They look cozy and friendly and happy. Harry looks away. “So, who do we have left?” Niall asks.

“Do we – can we just go home?” Harry asks. “I don’t really feel like…and Shauna got her date, the job’s done, right?”

“Sure,” Niall says, sounding resigned. “Whatever you want.”

Harry props his feet up on the dashboard to get his knees close to his chest on the drive home. He folds his arms over his stomach and closes his eyes, feigning sleep. Niall sings along softly to “Mess Is Mine,” and Harry tips his head against the window and tries not to listen.

“Welcome home, loves, how was your day?” Anne asks. Her voice sinks from pleased to worried over the course of her question.

“I’m going to go take a nap,” Harry says, making way for the stairs.

He can practically hear his mum’s frown. “If you go to sleep now you’ll miss dinner again, darling, why don’t you come have a cup of tea?”

Niall answers for him too quietly for Harry to hear. He flops onto his bed without bothering to take off his coat or shoes. His pillow smells like Niall. He’s asleep before he can even think of it.

When Harry wakes up, it’s to Anne sat up against the headboard, her hip next to his head, glasses perched on the end of her nose. Harry can see text from her Kindle reflected in her glasses. “What time’s it?” he asks groggily.

“A little after nine,” Anne answers. “I saved some pork chops for you. It’s in the microwave.” Her finger swipes across the Kindle screen as she turns the page. Harry doesn’t move. “Niall said you two had a fight,” Anne says softly.

Harry rolls to bury his face in the pillow. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He says he thinks he was probably pretty unkind to you,” Anne continues placidly.

“Mmf.”

“I told him he was probably just being honest,” says Anne. “He does know you so well.” Harry can hear the unspoken words: _he loves you a lot_ , and he curls away from her, trying to smother himself in his pillow.

Anne strokes his back. Harry flops over to tell the ceiling, “He thinks I’m an unbearable prick.” Harry covers his face with his hands, pressing his fingertips into his forehead like he can push aside the thoughts he doesn’t want to have.

“Language,” Anne chides him softly. “You aren’t a bad person for doing a bad thing, Harry. You just have to do better.” She smooths his hair back from his face.

Harry closes his eyes. “I think he might be right,” he admits.

“Well, love,” Anne sighs, “I can only give you one bit of advice.” She bends down to press a kiss to his forehead, her lips dry and soft and warm. “Fix it,” she murmurs, and slides off the bed, her Kindle cradled in the corner of her arm.

So Harry drags himself off of his bed to look for Niall or Gemma. He finds Niall sat on the couch watching a match on the telly, his elbow propped up on the arm of the couch, his face in hand. His eyes flick over to Harry and his eyebrows go up. “Haz. Hey.”

“Hey,” Harry answers. “Can I sit?”

“Your house,” Niall shrugs, so Harry sits down in the middle of the couch. Not too close, but not too far away, either. Not out of arm’s reach. “D’you have a nice nap?”

Harry thinks about it. “Feel more tired now than before, I think, actually.”

Niall just hums.

“I’m sorry, okay? About what I said, I didn’t mean it.”

“You think I was upset with you because you called me a name?” Niall asks, muting the telly. “Harry.”

Harry frowns. “Well, what, then?”

Biting his lip, Niall looks Harry over. He should be so familiar, but he’s not right now, Harry thinks. He looks like a different Niall than the one Harry’s used to. Older, maybe. Wiser. “Just, don’t get confused, okay? This is all just pretend. You don’t have to like…impress me, alright? Let’s just be mates, like we used to be, and this’ll be over soon.”

“Fine,” Harry says, folding his arms across his chest. “Perfect. Do you know where my sister is?”

“Out with friends, last I heard,” Niall says, unmuting the telly.

It’s not like Harry has anything better to do, so he sits and watches the game with Niall. He dozes off without meaning to, and when he wakes up, the room is dark and empty, the television’s screen blank. Harry shuffles to the kitchen for a cup of tea and finds Robin sat at the bar with a bunch of papers.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, glancing over his shoulder as he opens the refrigerator. There’s a bunch of leftovers, and Harry remembers his plate in the microwave. He thinks about going to the effort of heating it up and washing his plate after, and he snags an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and settles on the stool next to Robin’s.

Robin waves a handful of paper around. “Work stuff,” he sighs. “We’ve got a multi-million dollar claim to sort out.”

Harry bites into his apple and nods along. “That’s a lot of work, huh?”

“Paperwork, anyway,” Robin shrugs. He looks at Harry over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are you sure you feel okay? I know you sleep a lot when you’re home, but…”

He nods, then thinks better of it and shrugs. “Has everybody in your family ever been angry with you at the same time?”

Robin laughs. “Oh, yes.”

 

***

 

“Go do something, get into trouble,” Anne shoos Harry out of the house the next day. He’s spent the past four hours watching “Say Yes to The Dress” with Gemma’s feet in his lap, her fingers tap-tapping away on her keyboard. Gemma groans and claims work stuff, Harry scowling, so he goes to find Niall.

Niall’s sitting on his heels poking around under Harry’s bed when he goes upstairs. “What are you doing?”

Niall jolts and bumps his head on the bedframe. He comes out swearing under his breath, rubbing at the back of his head. “Gettin’ my brain damaged by you. How can you be so quiet on those Loony Toons feet?”

Harry shifts his weight back and forth. “I dunno. What are you doing?”

“Just having a look around,” Niall shrugs. “Checking what kind of porn kid-you was into.”

“You knew me when I was a kid,” Harry objects.

“So you’ve always been such a kinky bastard,” Niall grins, smiling harder when Harry tweaks his nose. “What’d you come looking for me for, anyway?”

“Mum says we’ve got to get out of the house,” he explains. “What do you want to do?”

Niall thinks. “Haven’t you got any friends? Didn’t you grow up here?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry fumbles to say. He’s texted Jonny and Alice a few times saying he was in town, and they’ve invited him out. He just keeps falling asleep before he actually makes it out the door. “You want to hang out with them?”

Niall rises to his feet, wiping his hands off on his jeans. “I know Jonathon,” he points out. “Remember last year, in Australia? He had that awful kale salad you recommended at dinner so I gave him half my burger.”

“That wasn’t awful,” Harry says, following Niall down the stairs. “Where are we going?”

“For a walk,” Niall answers, grabbing his coat and Harry’s from the coat rack by the door and pushing it into his hands. “While you’re up, I mean. You haven’t been this pale since you were sixteen, it’s kind of weirding me out.”

“It’s – I just woke up, it’s early for me, and it’s winter,” Harry says. “Honestly.”

“Well, anyway,” Niall huffs. They’ve set off across the moors. Harry stumbles over clumps of heather a couple of times and Niall steadies him. “How do you go jogging in this in the middle of the night, and you can’t walk in it during the day?”

Harry feels like the breath’s been punched out of him. “How do you know about that?”

Niall shoves his hands in his pockets. “What, you think I sleep just fine? ‘S like, without the fans screaming or something, I dunno. I keep setting my alarm for six a.m. and I don’t know why.”

“You could’ve said something,” Harry says quietly.

“So could you,” Niall answers, just as soft.

They move together without talking for a moment, the only sound their feet swishing through the grass. “What are you thinking about?” Harry asks Niall. It’s a game they used to play a lot: if ever asked, you have to answer immediately with the honest truth.

“Nothing, really,” Niall answers. “Just buzzing. Can’t turn it off.”

“So what do you do while I’m out running?” Harry asks.

Niall bites his bottom lip. Harry never noticed how often Niall did it before, or he would’ve been driven mad years ago. He watches the blood drain out of his lip and he wants to bite Niall himself. “Play a bit o’ music, mostly,” Niall answers. “Don’t want to get soft,” he adds, spreading his elbows a bit. Harry guesses he’s wiggling his fingers inside his pockets.

They come to the greenbelt about half a mile off from Anne’s house. “I’ve seen this in This Is Us,” Niall snorts. “Isn’t this where you kissed your girl?”

“‘I kissed my girl,’” Harry instantly breaks into song, Niall joining in on the second word, “‘by the factory wall.’” They laugh, a flush spreading over Niall’s face. “Somewhere around here. Near this little stream, I wonder if it’s still here.”

Niall follows Harry between the trees, where the ground gets smoother, if less flat. “I think it’s around here somewhere,” Harry’s saying slowly, when his feet slip out from under him and he finds the stream by falling into it. “Ow,” he draws out. He looks up at Niall, who’s still standing at the top of the little embankment, a smile twitching on his lips. “Don’t laugh.”

So of course Niall bursts out laughing. He steps sideways down the embankment like a skier going up a hill, crouching to look at Harry. He’s sat up, at least, but his back and arm still ache like hell. Mostly he thinks it’s from the cold; his right arm and shoulder are soaked right through to the skin. “Poor thing,” Niall comforts him.

Harry’s teeth start chattering. “D-Don’t start,” he warns him, trying to stand up without stepping out of the creek. Of course water floods into his boots, and he lets out a despairing sigh as Niall laughs even harder.

“God, you’re such a stud,” Niall teases him. He loops his arm around Harry’s waist and halfway drags him back up to solid ground. “Harry Styles, the ladies’ man. How you ever got that reputation, I don’t know.”

“Probably b-because Zayn didn’t w-want it,” Harry says without thinking. Niall stiffens against his side. Harry instantly wants to punch himself in the face. “S-Sorry, sorry, I – sorry,” he ends, lamely.

Niall pulls Harry’s arm down around his shoulders, so that he’s properly got them locked together. “It’s whatever,” Niall merely says.

“C-Can you imagine me as the m-mysterious one?” Harry asks, trying to be funny. He’s pretty sure he’s not succeeding. “I’d h-have to stop doing y-yoga, probably.”

“I don’t know,” Niall mutters, like he doesn’t intend for Harry to hear. “You’re pretty mysterious to me.”

By the time they get back to the house, Harry’s having a hard time feeling his fingers and toes. Niall helps Harry out of his sopping coat in the mudroom. Harry kneels to undo the buckles on his boots, but his hands are shaking too hard to get the little prong thing out of the hole in the suede, and it’s all tightened up around his foot because of the water, anyway. Just as he’s about to get properly frustrated Niall kneels down beside him on his good knee and undoes the wee little buckles for him.

“Jesus, your lips are turning blue,” Niall huffs, the two of them leaning on each other to get back to their feet.

Shivers keep racking Harry’s body, making his teeth clack together and bite his tongue. He tastes the bitter tang of blood and decides, “M-Maybe l-like a sauna would b-be good.”

“I can’t believe this,” Niall’s saying, mostly to himself. “Knowing you, you’re gonna catch pneumonia and die. C’mere,” he orders, pulling Harry along the hallway in his sodden jeans – oh, were those wet, too? – until they come to the bathroom. Niall leans over and cranks the hot water on, watching as it spills into the tub. Harry’s already struggling out of his jeans when Niall looks round, sees him, and looks away, a mad flush crawling up his throat. “Jesus, let me leave the room first.”

“D-Don’t go,” Harry argues. “You don’t kn-know, I could fall as-asleep in the tub.”

Niall groans and covers his face with his hands, but he does drop the toilet lid and plop down onto it. “Are you decent?” he asks wryly, when Harry’s up to his neck in almost boiling hot water. He threw in one of Anne’s bath bombs and the whole thing looks like a galaxy. It smells like grapefruit.

Harry lets out a fairly pornographic groan. “Why does anyone ever shower,” he muses.

“Probably because it’s kind of gross to sit in your own filth,” Niall mutters. He leans back against the cistern, relaxing by degrees. Harry watches him unfreeze, his own body loose and toasty. He sniffles. “Poor babe,” Niall grimaces. “Bet you will have a cold, after all that.”

“Just in time for Christmas,” Harry sighs, thinking of the turkey and stuffing he won’t be able to taste.

“Sorry,” Niall says.

Harry slicks his hair back from his face. It floats in the water around his shoulders, it’s so long. It doesn’t even look good anymore, really, Harry just can’t decide how to cut it, so he hasn’t. “Not your fault, Nialler.”

“Still,” Niall insists. “Should’ve known better than to trust you to stand on solid ground without falling over.”

“Hey,” Harry drawls, but Niall still looks ill at ease, so Harry opens his mouth to pull in some water. “I can do the whale thing when we’re not on stage, you know. D’you want me to spray you right now?”

Niall’s face crumples with a groan. “Please, stop,” he laughs.

Harry leans back against the back of the tub, stretching his legs out so that his toes are on the opposite end. He wishes yoga was this easy. He could’ve mastered the airplane so much faster. “We should go out with the boys later,” Harry says. “I’ll text Jonny.”

“I don’t know,” Niall hesitates. “You probably shouldn’t.”

“We can play Monopoly all day tomorrow,” Harry suggests. “I’ll turn the thermostat up to thirty-two degrees and wear my parka inside the house.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He picks Harry’s phone, miraculously still functional, out of his jeans and settles back on the toilet. “Want to go to the pubs?” Niall asks, unlocking Harry’s phone. Does everybody know the damn password?

“Pub crawl,” Harry agrees. “We should make it a contest. Who’s got the higher tolerance, the uni grads or the pop stars?”

“Us, obviously,” Niall says distractedly, his thumbs tapping away on the screen.

Harry trails his fingers through the bubbles, watching the tip of Niall’s tongue peek out beyond his lips as he types on Harry’s phone. “Are you, uh.” Niall looks up from the screen, his eyebrows up. “D’you think you’ll see Melly for Christmas?” Harry asks reluctantly. He doesn’t really want to know the answer. He can’t make himself stop from asking.

“Maybe,” Niall shrugs carelessly.

“So, it’s…has she met Bobby and Maura, then?”

“Harry,” Niall sighs.

Harry argues, “I’m just taking a friendly interest! We can talk about this stuff, right? We have before?”

“Not normally while you’re naked in the bath,” Niall rolls his eyes. He bites his lip again. Harry starts counting by sevens in his head. “But, yeah. I guess.”

“And?” Harry prompts him.

Niall slumps in defeat. “She wants to, okay? Just, like.”

“Obviously you shouldn’t invite Greg,” Harry puts in. “Maybe you should start with Theo, have her bring him a toy firetruck for his collection, get him on her side. Then graduate up to Maura.”

Niall laughs. “Do you still talk to Bobby?”

Harry shrugs. Not as much, lately. Not that he can remember. He ought to soon. “I’ve never seen a man love his grandson that much. It makes me want to cry,” he says, just as Niall puts in, “It makes me want to heave,” his face creased up in faux-disgust.

“Good advice, though,” Niall adds softly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Just trying to be helpful,” Harry smiles, then realizes what he’s said, and tries not to frown. “What have the lads said?”

Niall checks Harry’s phone. “They’re in.”

“Oi, what’s going on here?” Gemma asks, knocking on the bathroom door. She jiggles the handle and Niall shoots Harry an exasperated look, which Harry interprets as _You’re all this totally without boundaries?_ Gemma pokes her head into the bathroom, her hand over her eyes. “My little brother’s not going blind in here, is he?”

“No,” Harry answers dutifully. Niall scoffs, and Gemma steps fully into the bathroom, letting some of the steam escape.

“He fell into the creek,” Niall offers helpfully.

Gemma clucks sympathetically. “We’ll have to cancel Christmas. This one’s bound to have caught bronchitis or something.”

Harry makes a wordless sound of protest, and Niall and Gemma laugh. “Hey! Was that my bath bomb? Those are costly, Harry, and you’ve used the last one!”

“I’m naked in here,” Harry points out. “I can stand up.”

“Oh, like I haven’t seen you naked before,” Gemma snaps. Harry puts his hands on the edge of the claw-foot tub, and Gemma squeaks and covers her eyes. “Alright, you won this round.”

“Oy, Gem,” Niall says, her hand on the doorknob, “d’you want to come out with us tonight?”

“As long as my brother’s not naked,” Gemma sighs. She pats Niall’s hand. “That’s your business.”

“What?” Niall demands, when he turns to find Harry staring at him.

Harry lets his head go limp and heavy over the rim of the tub. “Nothing,” Harry answers politely. “Just, she better not worsen our odds of winning the drinking contest.”

Niall just scoffs.

Harry doesn’t get out of the bath until the bubbles are all but scented water, and even the water’s gone past lukewarm. Niall’s gone ahead to get dressed, so Harry ties a towel around his waist and sets about toweling his hair dry. It always ends up wildly curly when he dries it like this, but he’s not got the time to faff about looking for the blow-drier. He shuffles off to his room to find something to wear before he remembers that Niall’s staying there.

Knocking softly, Harry pokes his head in, but Niall’s not in. Harry steps into the room and spots Niall’s suitcase open at the foot of the bed, his clothes folded neatly inside. Harry thinks about snooping, but it’s Niall. He wouldn’t disrupt his organizational system to hide something. He turns to find Niall’s clothes hanging from the top of the closet door, his trainers lined up against the wall. Harry’s throat goes dry. Niall always settles into whatever place he’s staying, always makes a hotel room feel a bit more like home. It just. It’s here, now. In Harry’s mum’s house.

Harry thinks of Niall digging around under his bed, and he frowns, wondering what’s down there. He crouches to look, and there’s a guitar under the bed. It’s an acoustic, sort of familiar-looking, like maybe he’s seen Niall with it before. Why is he sneaking around with it?

“Hey, - oh, for the love of God, are you going to be naked for the rest of the night?” Niall demands, opening the door all the way. Harry manages to jump to his feet just in time. Niall is wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans and a henley with an unbuttoned shirt over the top.

Harry puts his hands on his hips. “I’m wearing two towels, Niall.” He points to his legs, and then to his head. “Anyway, I haven’t decided what to wear yet.” He turns to look through the vast selection of printed shirts his mother’s housed for him. YSL keeps sending them to him as part of that promotional deal, and. Well, it’s not his fault he doesn’t like all of them, is it?

“You’ll look like a flamingo if you wear those,” Niall says. “Put a jumper on for Christ’s sakes, we’ve still got to get something to eat.” So Harry throws on a tee and that oversized sweater he never gave back to Lou and shoves his feet into another pair of boots. He slips his arms through the sleeves of that knee-length coat he wore for work one day last winter. In Florida, maybe? Or was it New York?

Gem and Niall are downstairs waiting for him when Harry makes it down. Niall gives him an approving look; Harry tries not to preen.

“Where shall we go?” Gemma asks, clicking her seatbelt on. She turns the key in the ignition and the engine turns over easily. Harry relaxes into his seat, watching snow swirl down from the iron-colored sky. “Oy, don’t go to sleep back there,” Gemma warns Harry, her eyes sharp and bright in the rearview mirror.

Unsticking his forehead from the window, Harry says, “I’m not going to sleep.”

Niall turns halfway around in his seat to look at Harry. “She’s right, you look groggy. Are you sure you feel alright?”

“Yes, yeah,” Harry waves him off. “Where are we meeting them?” He’s got his phone back in his own pocket, finally, but Niall’s handled this whole exchange. Might as well let him follow it through.

“Just up the street here,” Niall says. “Turn left.”

They pull into the tiny parking lot. Gemma’s car is suitably not-flashy, just like Harry’s jumper. He’s starting to see Niall’s point. They walk into the pub and Jonny and Em and the rest of Harry’s school friends are already there, clustered loosely around a table with a round of shots in front of them. Harry feels Niall recalculate their odds of winning this drink-off in his head, and he presses his arm against Niall’s, turning to smile at him.

“Long time no see, stranger!” Jonny says, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders and bringing him in for a hug. He knuckles the top of his head, making his messy hair even more disheveled than it was. Harry laughs and shoves him away. “And the dearly beloved,” Jonathon adds cheekily, giving Niall a firm handshake. Harry opens his mouth to explain but Niall gives a minute shake of his head, so Harry subsides.

Gemma goes to get them another round, so Harry settles into the corner of their booth. He hasn’t seen some of these people in – almost a year, maybe? When was last tour break? He turns aside to ask Niall and realizes how close he is, how snug they are against each other, Niall’s arm stretched out behind Harry’s shoulders along the back of the booth.

“You alright?” Niall asks, raising an eyebrow. “Warm?” Harry just nods. Niall gives him a quick grin, satisfied, so Harry turns back to finish the chat he was having with Craig. It’s the best night out Harry’s had in ages, his mates warm and close and smelling of British beer, the pub familiar and homey. Much better than some nights he’s had in LA clubs, where he always gets put in VIP, whether he wants to be there or not, and the potent mix of perfumes and colognes that always give him an allergy headache.

“I’ve got to say,” Jonny says into Harry’s ear, when it’s Harry’s turn to go get the next round. Jonny’s half-hanging off his neck, his gangly limbs even longer and more coltish than Harry’s. “I always thought there was something between you – between you and Niall,” he hiccups.

Harry frowns. “What are you on about?”

“‘ _We fit_ ,’” Jonny mimics Harry’s drawl. “I mean, like, that was a dead giveaway.”

“Uh, no, we only – er, it’s not since – ” It’s all so confusing and hard to explain. Especially since Harry’s not totally sure of it himself.

Waving his hand, Jonny brushes off Harry’s comment. “Pints!” he crows, mimicking Niall’s Irish lilt now. Harry grabs the serving tray so that Jonny won’t and carries it, tottering only a bit, back to their table. He spills onto the booth and lands halfway in Niall’s lap, Niall’s hand curling over his shoulder.

“Alright?” He laughs.

“I’m not that drunk,” Harry says at once. “Er, I mean, yes.”

Niall just strokes his hand down Harry’s back, digging his knuckles into that knot at the top of his shoulders. “Good.”

“Niall,” Harry says, reaching for his wrist. “Nialler.” Niall looks down at Harry, who’s made himself more comfortable in Niall’s lap. He’s got such skinny legs but his thighs are meaty enough to make a lovely pillow, and the denim of his jeans is worn soft. Harry presses his face into Niall’s belly and breathes deep. Down here, all Harry can smell is Niall’s spicy Hugo Boss cologne and his deodorant. Harry could pick Niall out of a lineup blind-folded with his hands tied behind his back by his scent.

“What?” Niall growls, his voice rough with how much he’s been talking to Harry’s school friends. He pokes Harry in the dimple, and Harry smiles harder.

“I’m proper glad you’re here,” Harry says. “I wish you were always here. ‘And I know that I come on strong,’” he bursts out singing, “‘Forgive me I just couldn’t help myself / And I have changed but I see you better now,’” before Niall gets his wide palm over Harry’s mouth.

Niall laughs, “Oh, my God, shut up,” he snorts. “You’re totally off your head, aren’t you?”

“I wish we hadn’t fought,” Harry confesses. “In Lark Lane. I wanted to take you to Sefton Park. The pier. I googled it,” he hiccups.

Niall’s face softens. “Harry…”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he’s properly tossed,” Gemma laughs, cutting in. She pulls Harry up until he’s leaning against her shoulder, ignoring his protests that he really has only had a couple of drinks. She puts her hand on his forehead and draws it away quick, like she’s been scalded. “He’s burning up,” she tells Niall.

Harry starts in on the Jonas Brothers classic and Gemma muffles him. “We should take him home,” Niall agrees.

“I don’t want to go home,” Harry contributes. “I want – do they have karaoke here? Let’s sing.” Harry opens his eyes, Niall’s and Gemma’s faces swimming above him. Harry has a weird thought that if he hadn’t gone through with the X-Factor, if he hadn’t made it past boot camp. He could still have wound up right here, anyway.

The thought makes him close his eyes, and when he opens them again, his head’s in Gemma’s lap in the car. He can tell, because he can see streetlights flashing past the window. He can see Niall’s face in profile, his thumb tapping against the top of the steering wheel. “Gem?”

“Shush, brother,” Gemma sighs. “Sleep.”

“Sorry,” he tries to say. “‘Cos Niall said, and – ”

Gemma pats his head. “Not now. Shh.”

“I love you,” Harry mumbles into her woolen skirt. “Sorry, sorry. Love you.”

“I know,” Gemma murmurs. Harry blearily watches Niall’s jaw work in the shaky streetlamps.

Anne and Robin take Niall to the airport after breakfast the next day to be home for the holidays. “Sorry I can’t come,” Harry tells him from his spot in bed. Anne’s banned him from moving.

“Nah, ‘s alright,” Niall says, perching on the edge of the bed. “Just a car ride. Shall I tell Theo Happy Christmas from you?”

“Yes. And, oh! Give him this from us,” Harry says, passing Niall the fire engine on his bedside table. “My mum picked it out, so you know he’ll like it. You can say it’s from you. Kids deserve to be spoilt on the holidays,” he tells Niall seriously.

Niall hangs his head and snorts out a laugh. “Ah, alright, then. That all?”

“Well, you know. Travel safely. Tell, uh. Tell Melly happy holidays from me.”

Niall hesitates for a moment. “I like all your school friends,” he says. “They know you, like. Really well.”

Harry nods. He still feels like he’s missing the point.

Harry doesn’t get a moment alone with Gemma until they’re sat in Nan’s room in the nursing home on Christmas Eve. Nan has been talking to Harry, who she’s convinced is Des, for the past half hour about his job as a stocker at the grocer’s, and how she can never find anything in this damn place.

Harry turns aside in his chair. “Gem,” he says.

“Oh, for the love of – no, you have to sit through this too,” she whispers back.

“No, I – I just wanted to say sorry? If I’ve not called enough, or kept in touch, I – well, you know it is. I’m sorry.”

Gemma eyes him thoughtfully. Sometimes Harry remembers how brilliant she is and it’s not a comfort, it’s almost frightening. “I do know how it is,” she agrees. “It’s always been mad, but you’ve found the time before.” Her eyebrows go up the tiniest bit, like a challenge.

Harry swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Can I make it up to you? Please?”

Gemma hems and haws. “Well, alright. But I’m going to make you work for it,” she adds, wrapping her arm around Harry’s shoulders. She presses a kiss to the top of his head, and Nan perks up, shocked. “I’ll say!” she says. “This must be Anne, is it?”

Gemma guffaws and Harry just about falls out of his seat, he laughs so hard.

“I’ve met someone,” she whispers into his ear, when Nan’s gotten distracted again. “Well, you know him. He was at the Apple show.”

Harry goes tense all over. _It’s disgusting,_ he’d said. He’d say the same thing now. He hasn’t called as much, but neither has she, and it’s like Harry can see the next few years playing out. She’ll get her own family and that’ll be that, Harry’s no longer her favorite person. It – it’s silly and childish and petty, and it still hurts. Harry swallows hard. “Good for you, Gem,” he gets out, and she kisses the top of his head again.

Liam and Niall wish Louis a happy birthday on Twitter and have sent him messages on their group thread. Harry spins his phone around and around in his hand under the table at dinner, trying to decide what to do. In the end, he texts Louis, “Happy birthday. All the love x.” It’s what he’d expect, and it’s what Harry would send.

Somehow it doesn’t feel adequate, Louis separate from his new baby, trying to make it through the holidays with his mum and gaggle of sisters. Harry thinks of Louis knocking back shots on the plane and adds, “See you at next issue of Sky Mall.”

Louis doesn’t text back.

Christmas Day dawns cold and snowy, and Harry and Gemma and Anne and Des spend the day puttering about the house. Des calls about halfway through the day, so Harry and Gemma spend almost an hour with their heads bent over her phone together, catching up. Anne pulls up the home design channel and they watch Bargain Hunters for most of the day.

Harry decides not to give Anne the book, but his Sky Mall purchases come in just before the holiday, so Harry signs his name to the decorative outdoor canopy with a flourish. He’s sent both Des and Robin personal foot massage tubs, which, to his surprise, they seem to like.

Niall calls while they’re in the kitchen baking cookies, so Harry wipes flour off on his shirt and hurriedly scoops his phone up off the counter. “Hello?”

“Hey, hi,” Niall says, surprised. “I thought I’d get your voicemail. What’re you doin’?”

“Baking cookies,” Harry answers.

“Ooh, what kind?”

Harry laughs. “Your favorite, oatmeal raisin.”

“Ugh, really?”

Harry pokes at the cookbooks lining the shelves on the island with his toe. “No, they’re chocolate chip, and gingerbread.”

“I hate gingerbread,” Niall comments. “Chocolate chip, though. With the bits of walnut like you always do?”

“Wouldn’t be mine without them,” Harry says, and Niall hums appreciatively. “I’ll save you some.”

Harry can hear Niall breathing over the phone, slow and easy, sure. A fixed point, Harry thinks. “‘Kay. We can eat ‘em on the plane to the Rockin’ Eve gig.”

“We’re flying together?”

“Yeah, my assistant confirmed it today. Good?”

Harry nods fervently. “Yeah. Yes, good. Very good.”

Niall laughs. His voice sounds so soft. “Did you get Shauna’s email?”

“Yeah, how’s the tweet meant to go?” Harry asks, scoffing. “Let me read it. ‘Happy Xmas Nialler xx.’ Classy,” he says drily.

“That’s better than mine! ‘Happy Christmas Hazza,’ with the monkey emoji. That doesn’t even make sense there!” Niall laughs.

Harry can’t stop smiling, even though he can hear Gemma teasing him. “I wonder how many rounds of test screening that went through.”

“At least three,” Niall guesses. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I wanted to, uh. You know, wish you a real Happy Christmas before I posted Shauna’s tweet.”

“Happy Christmas,” Harry says.

“Happy Christmas,” Niall answers. “Now get back to making us snacks for the plane. See you then, aye?” Harry nods even though Niall can’t see him, and Niall clicks off.

As soon as the cookies are loaded into the oven to bake, Harry thumbs open the Twitter app. Niall’s posted, “@Harry_Styles santa’s favorite elf ! ” and a badly photoshopped picture of himself with pointy ears and Niall with a great snowy beard.

Harry waits until the cookies are done baking to take a picture of them cooling on the racks. He posts it to Instagram with the caption, “@niallhoran so hurry down the chimney tonight.” He doesn’t stop smiling until he falls into bed at the end of the day.

           

***

 

Snow swirls down in thick spirals onto the windshield and the road. Harry can see it building up even though cars are driving over the road, displacing the snow as it lands. He’s relieved when his driver gets him to the airport without a problem and thanks him heartily.

“Haz,” Phil greets Harry with a smile between clenched teeth, his eyes tightened up against the snow. He grabs Harry’s case from him and starts to lead him into the airport. “Okay?”

“Good,” Harry nods. He and Phil find Liam and Louis and Niall already situated in the lounge. Liam has his laptop propped up on his knees, those giant headphones on his ears. Louis’s texting ferociously on his phone, his eyes like a raccoon’s with the dark circles he’s got going on, and Niall’s sat with a notebook spread over his knees. He closes it when he spots Harry, a grin spreading over his face. Liam looks up and slides the headphones down around his neck, his eyes bright and fond.

“‘The boys are back in town,’” Niall and Harry chorus in unison, and Harry dances the rest of the way into the room, dropping his carry-on into a seat and plopping down between Liam and Niall. Niall transitions seamlessly into “dancing in the moonlight / it’s caught me in it’s spotlight,” his hips wiggling in his seat. Harry laughs.

Louis groans aloud. “Lads, cut it with the Thin Lizzy tribute, won’t you? I’m trying to get some work done here.”

Quietly, Liam leans in and says, “He’s on the phone with Briana. She’s not too keen on his idea of taking the baby to New York for New Year’s.” Harry grimaces, looking over at Louis. He’s learned not to even do that over the years, worried someone might snap a picture of it and get Louis worked up into a proper strop.

Thirty minutes later, Harry and Niall have staked their claim on the grapes and Hot Tamales Liam’s brought with him. No one from security has come to collect them yet, and Liam stops trying to get them to give him his food back to ask for Paddy. Paddy stalks into the room, his cheeks flushed. “Flight’s delayed, lads. Might be half an hour, might be…hours.”

“We can’t miss Rockin’ Eve,” Niall bursts out with. His eyes are feverish. “That’s our last performance, it’s been on the books for ages, who – it’s our last show,” he winds down with weakly.

“We’ll get there, Nialler,” Liam says, clapping a hand on Liam’s shoulder. With nothing else to do, Liam breaks out his playing cards and they start up a game of poker. Louis slides into the game, folding his legs underneath him. Harry stretches out on his side so that he can peer over Liam’s knee when he’s not paying attention.

Louis rakes in his latest winning of three grapes, four Hot Tamales, and the half-dozen coins Liam had in his pocket: a Euro, a pound, a few nickels. “You’re all transparent,” he cackles.

“You must be cheating,” Niall decides, studying him closely. “We all know Harry’s trying to cheat and he’s still losing, so you must be cheating.”

Harry sits upright in protest. “I’m not cheating!”

“You so are,” Liam laughs, poking Harry in the cheek. He ruffles Harry’s hair when Harry pinches his leg, shoving his head away. Harry looks at these faces he’s been looking at for the better part of six years, and they all look so much older now. He can still picture Niall’s crooked teeth and Liam’s flat-ironed hair, Louis’s suspenders cutting into his shoulders. There are millions of pictures of them all over the Internet, the last five years – a quarter of Harry’s life – preserved forever. Suddenly he’s glad for that, as invasive as it’s been. It’ll all be remembered.

“Okay,” Niall says, “next hand gets immunity from whatever Liam and Louis are going to do at tonight’s show.” Harry laughs, accepting the hand Niall’s dealt.

 

***

 

The Rockin’ Eve stage is much smaller than Harry expected, if he’d stopped to think about it at all, and situated in the middle of the street, it’s got no protection from the blisteringly cold wind blowing down from Canada. Harry hides at the bottom of the stage, using a speaker as a windbreaker, while the sound tech runs wires under his shirt and makes sure his mic settings are accurate.

“This is worse than the last time I was wearing this coat,” Harry says. He’s got his sheepskin bomber jacket on this go-round. He’s a little surprised it still fits, but it’s even a bit loose around his wrists. “What was that?”

“GMA?” Liam guesses, absently putting his hand on Louis’s shoulder.

Niall nods, pressing his shoulder against Harry’s, his back to the brunt of the wind. “Yep. That was a good show.”

“Guys,” Ryan Seacrest comes over, that brilliant smile on his face. Harry tries to count his teeth before he stops smiling. He gets all the way up to eighteen before Seacrest changes his expression. He’s a decent host for all that, keeps the crowd on point and responding to the camera crew’s requests to cheer or be quiet for the talking bits.

Sandy and Dan and Josh are there for this last performance before the hiatus kicks in. Everything slots together perfectly, like you’d expect it to after five years of practice. They transition easily from “Clouds” to “Drag Me Down” all the way back around to “What Makes You Beautiful.” Even Liam and Louis look like they’re enjoying themselves for this final rundown, or maybe it’s just that they won’t have to perform it again, ever, even if they come back from hiatus.

“And now the countdown begins!” Ryan finishes his little speech. The clock in Times Square starts kicking down from ten seconds. Even though Louis’s got the microphone in his hand, all four of them count aloud. Harry’s got his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, so he’s unprepared for Niall turning with one second on the clock and grabbing a handful of Harry’s coat. He goes easily, because of course he would, to Niall’s mouth landing on his.

Niall’s aim is exactly spot-on. He mouths at Harry’s bottom lip before he tilts his head, kissing Harry like he’s trying to kiss the heart out of him. His arms go tight around Harry’s waist. Harry’s mouth opens at once, his arms stiff and cold and maddeningly uncooperative as he goes to cup Niall’s face between his palms. Harry kisses Niall until his mouth goes soft against his, and he doesn’t stop kissing him until Niall pushes him away by his hips.

Harry blinks and the rest of the world rushes back in, Louis and Liam staring at them in shock, Ryan’s delighted smile on his face as he blabbers excitedly into the microphone. Harry ducks his head self-consciously, rethinking what he’d decided earlier. He’d rather that was a private moment, to be honest.

“Okay, guys!” Ryan says, prompting them to look at the cameras. “Ready? Happy New Year!” he shouts, the last of the confetti raining down on their heads.

Harry tries to catch Niall’s eye, but Niall’s stepped off to Harry’s side, his lips kiss-bitten red. “Happy New Year,” Harry says, shaking hands with Ryan Seacrest. He passes his mic off to a sound tech, stops to let another remove his mic pack, and they’re done. It’s over.

 

***

 

Niall’s saying something backstage, talking to Liam or Louis or someone from ABC, and Harry can’t stop staring at his mouth. Someone reaches over and pinches his arm, and he whines, drawing his arm protectively over his chest. Louis’s got an expression on his face like he’s sucking on a lemon.

“What?” Harry asks.

“I was asking if you were flying back to LA tonight,” Liam answers patiently, “with Louis.”

Harry keeps rubbing his arm. “That really hurt, Louis,” he whinges. “Uh, but no, I’m staying in town for a bit.”

“Yeah?” Niall asks.

Harry zeroes in on his mouth again. He has to concentrate very hard to think of a response. “Erm, yes. I’ve got that flat here and all.”

“You’re actually going to stay in a place you own?” Louis snorts. “I thought you just collected them, like. Lose value if you take them out of the packaging,” he laughs. Liam laughs along, and Harry frowns.

“Just for that, only Niall is invited over for tea.”

Louis scoffs, and Liam says peaceably, “Well, that’s alright. I’ve got to get back to Sophia. I guess,” he hesitates. “Well, I’m sure we’ll see each other soon, I mean.” Louis shifts his weight to his other leg, Niall lets out a little cough, and Liam has the grace to look awkward.

The thought occurs to Harry clearly for maybe the first time that he won’t have to see these three faces again in a few weeks’ time for rehearsals. There’s not another tour to plan or choreograph, and they’re done promoting the new album. Harry can picture it now, like a little present with a bow on top. The band complete, like. He isn’t ready to think about opening that Pandora’s Box again.

“March,” Niall cuts in. “We’ll see each other again in March. And then the awards in November.”

“Yeah, yeah, Nialler,” Liam throws his arm around Niall’s shoulders, knuckling the top of his head. He aims a kiss at Niall and gets his ear, and Niall grimaces and pushes him away, his fingers curling in Liam’s shirt. “Love you boys,” he says warmly. “See you soon, yeah?”

“See you,” Harry choruses with the others, clasping Liam’s hand for a moment before he heaves his bag over his shoulder.

Louis says, “I’m heading to the airport with Payno, lads. See you around, eh?” He holds out his fist for Niall to bump. He raises his hand in a wave at Harry, and Harry can see Louis as he first knew him, his best friend, with that terrible fringe and the braces cutting into his shoulders, and Harry waves back. It’s Louis again as he is now, with a baby on the way, and Louis breaks eye contact quickly. He and Liam leave with their battalion of security for the airport.

“So,” Harry says, turning to Niall, whose hair is flat over his forehead from the wind, his cheeks still pink from the cold, “back to mine, then?”

Niall’s already busily tapping away at his phone. He’s started wearing a watch now, Harry notices, when Niall glances at the dial. It looks like something Bobby would wear, quite simple with a leather band and a silver face. Harry wonders where he got it. Who gave it to him. “Really?” Niall asks dubiously. “Don’t you have other stuff to do?”

“Xander’s still on holiday with his family and Jeff’s got meetings,” Harry says. “Besides, we can hang out, can’t we?”

Niall hesitates again, and it makes something inside of Harry slip a little, like a heavy blanket over the side of the bed. “Yeah, alright,” Niall shrugs, so they load up in the same black Range Rover for Harry’s flat in TriBeCa. His assistant gave him the key before she left to go back to LA today, but he’s a little worried about getting past the doorman.

He needn’t have worried. The doorman greets “Mr. Styles” and “Mr. Horan” with a smile, his aged skin shining with how hard he’s smiling. “Oh, I,” Harry starts. He smiles back. “Well, yeah. Thanks.”

The doorman excitedly shakes his hand. “My name is Wes, I’ll be here most evenings if you need anything. It’s a pleasure to have you here.” He looks a little shy. “I’m a big fan.”

“What’s your favorite song?” Niall asks interestedly. He’s always willing to talk music.

“‘Stockholm Syndrome,’” he answers immediately. “Really puts my old lady in the mood, if you know what I mean,” he winks, and Harry chokes on a laugh. Niall stomps on his toes to keep him quiet, the corners of his lips twitching.

Niall grins. “Right, well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Wes,” he shakes his hand.

“You, too,” Wes grins. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Harry and Niall wait until they’re safely inside the lift with the doors closed before Niall bursts out laughing. Harry has silent tears of laughter streaming down his face. “Did you hear that, Haz?” Niall asks, flinging a hand at Harry’s chest. “Your songs are an aphrodisiac for old people, oh, God,” he laughs.

“Just that one,” Harry argues, smiling so hard he can barely see. The elevator dings for their floor, so Harry and Niall step off the lift. His flat’s the one on the end, and Harry has a moment of fumbling with the three keys on the chain his assistant gave him before he finds the right one.

Niall lets out a low whistle. “Fancy,” he comments, stepping in. His boots make that low, pleasant clacking sound against the hardwood floor that Harry remembers his mum’s heels making at church when he was a kid, and he feels warmed up a degree, in a way his coat and heavy socks haven’t been able to accomplish. “Is this your furniture?” Niall asks, nodding toward the cream sofa and dark coffee table. It’s a vanilla-and-coffee kind of aesthetic, and it’s alright, for now.

“Came with the flat,” Harry answers. He hasn’t had time to bring his designer over from LA or find a new one in New York. Maybe he’ll do that, now. Suddenly the months between this moment and March feel enormous. Niall nods, dropping his black leather Nike bag on the floor. It makes a solid thump on the hardwood.

“Have you got anything to drink?” Niall asks. Harry follows him to the kitchen. Niall glances over his shoulder. “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

Harry shrugs. He’s spent one weekend here in June and he didn’t even spend the night, just came to see it and sign the papers. Niall opens the fridge – empty – and then stoops to rifle through the cabinets. He turns up a stainless steel toaster, a small fire extinguisher, and a half-empty can of Febreeze spray, but no drinks.

“I remember maybe,” Harry thinks aloud, opening the pantry, and yes, there’s a wine rack inside with a bottle of wine with a bow tied around the neck resting on the shelf.

“Pay dirt!” Niall crows, reaching past Harry to draw it out of the little nook. “Is this a good wine?” he asks Harry, who hums cluelessly. All wine pretty much tastes the same, to be honest. “D’you have a corkscrew?” Niall asks, then adds, “Don’t know why I ask,” and they rifle through the drawers. “No matter,” Niall says. “I’ll show you a trick Bobby Horan showed me.”

Harry starts smiling out of instinct. He loves Niall’s Bobby stories. He’s more like a mate than a father to Niall. Harry’s got a dad and a step-dad, and they’re both a little remote, a little serious, although very dear. “I must’ve been seven? Eight?” Niall recalls. “We were hosting this dinner party thing for me mum’s work friends, he was trying to make her happy, so we had wine instead of pints for once.

“‘Cept, when Bobby bought the wine from Tesco’s, he forgot to buy a corkscrew, too. So he stuck his penknife in the top,” Niall says, flicking his own penknife open with an expert twitch of his hand, “and twisted it out.” Niall quickly cranks his wrist around and out pops the cork. Niall quickly rights the bottle. “There.”

“Well done,” Harry compliments him. He takes the bottle, studying Niall out of the corner of his eye. “He made you do it, didn’t he?”

“He may have had a few pints,” Niall shrugs. “It was a rough time.”

“I wish I’d known you when you were little,” Harry says. “Someone should’ve taken care of you.” Niall stops moving, his face going stony and impossible to read. “Sorry,” Harry says, because he hates when Niall’s face does that, especially if he’s the cause of it. He hands the bottle back to Niall. “Sorry, sorry.”

Niall swallows audibly. “Nothin’ to apologize for, Haz,” he says, and takes a swig. Harry watches his throat move keenly. Niall hands Harry the bottle back and moves toward the living room, so Harry sits down next to him on the plush couch and watches Niall turn the TV on flip through channels. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Whatever,” Harry answers, taking a gulp of the wine. It’s red, so it’s more bitter than he’d prefer, but it warms him from the inside out. Outside, Harry can still hear revelers celebrating the new year in the streets and in the clubs and bars just a few blocks over from this flat. He’s spent more time in Manhattan than TriBeCa, but Xander recommended this neighborhood, so he’d figured, why not? Plus, it’s not too close to Taylor. He’s not got anything against her but he’s a little worried about running into her on the street.

Abruptly Harry remembers how tired he is, and he sinks a little further into the sofa, a little closer to Niall. He’s selected _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ , which makes Harry think of Harry Potter, so he says, “D’you know what I never got? Was butterbeer, like, alcoholic?”

“What? No,” Niall snorts, taking the wine bottle from Harry’s hands and downing another mouthful. Harry accepts the bottle when he hands it back and cradles it protectively to his chest, like a baby or a small cat.

“How d’you know?” Harry demands. “Have you been to Diagon Alley, or was that Liam?”

“Uh, no, but it was Hogsmeade, you idiot,” Niall answers, trying to pry the bottle out of Harry’s clutches, “and it’s like root beer. The ‘beer’ is just decorative.”

Harry quickly knocks back a shot before Niall gets the whole bottle to himself. Niall digs his fingers into Harry’s ribs and Harry tips over, relinquishing the bottle before Niall makes him choke or spew red wine all over this nice white sofa. He struggles until he’s sitting upright again, his shoulder pressed to Niall’s.

“But how do you know –” Harry starts, just to annoy him, and Niall puts his hand over Harry’s mouth. Harry does the natural thing and licks his palm, which is salty with sweat, and Niall jerks his hand away, cringing and laughing at the same time. It makes his face go all flushed and happy, and without thinking about it, Harry leans over and kisses his mouth. Niall goes stock still, and Harry angles his head, trying to kiss him better.

“Stop,” Niall says into Harry’s mouth. Harry can taste red wine on Niall’s lips, or maybe his own, and he’s so much warmer than Harry. Niall turns his head away and Harry hangs there, suspended in the little space between them. “I said stop,” Niall mutters.

Harry pulls back, putting some distance between them. “I thought…”

“It’s just pretend, Harry,” Niall says. He should sound angry, and maybe he is, a bit. Mostly he sounds sad. “It wasn’t real.”

“But I – ” Harry starts to argue, and then he realizes what he’s doing, and he bites his lip.

“You can’t decide you don’t want me and then change your mind when you can’t have me,” Niall tells him. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Harry sputters, “I don’t – I never – ” Niall waits patiently, lets him take a breath and gather his thoughts. He pulls the sleeves of his jumper over his hands and nervously clenches the fabric between his fingers. “You only let me have you when I can’t keep you.” He starts pulling at his bottom lip with his thumb and index finger. “I just want to, like. Be with you.”  

Niall rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. Harry wants to stroke his back or touch his face or climb into his lap. He doesn’t do any of those things. “We can’t do that if you’re never around, Haz,” Niall says softly. Harry still feels like it like a kick to the chest. “Not that I, like. Whatever. Just, can we be mates about this?”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says. His throat feels tight, clogged. He tries to clear it quietly.

“Kay. I should get going,” Niall stands up.

Harry’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist without his permission, and he draws his hand away slowly when Niall looks at him, his eyes very blue even in the dim lighting. “Stay? There might be burglars, or, I dunno, ghosts.”

“Don’t know what you expect me to do about ghosts,” Niall mutters, but he’s relenting, Harry can tell.

He leads Niall down the hall. He can’t remember which door leads to the guest bedroom and which to the master, not like it matters anyway. None of his stuff is here. Niall pushes a door open at random and Harry remembers, “This was a nursery, before I moved in,” he says, staring at the empty room. “Uh, I guess they got rid of the cot and stuff.”

“I’ll kip on the couch,” Niall sighs, turning back toward the living room.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Harry argues. He makes sure not to grab Niall’s sleeve or touch his shoulder. “You can bunk with me, we’ve done it before. I promise not to make a move on you.”

Niall hesitates. Harry knows he’s weighing the way his knee will be sore tomorrow if he crashes on the couch to the idea of having to share a bed with him, and he works his bottom lip over with his teeth. “Whatever,” Niall finally decides.

Harry hasn’t even brought a toothbrush with him, but Niall’s got his in his bag. Harry lies in bed and listens to him brush and spit, water running while he rinses his mouth and washes his face. He flips the bathroom light off and the only illumination comes through the curtains in front of the window: Manhattan thriving and bright, and only just out of reach.

The covers rustle against his legs when he stretches them out, and he can hear the little hitch in his own breathing, at the bottom of his lungs, like his allergies or his asthma are acting up. Niall breathes regularly beside him. It’s so quiet in this room. Too quiet. “Niall,” Harry whispers.

“I’m asleep,” Niall grumbles, even though he’s not. Harry’s reminded of waking up in the middle of the night on their first tours, back when they had to share hotel rooms on the reg, Niall’s clever eyes focused on the flickering TV screen. He used to stay up half the night watching one match or another. Still does, actually. “Alri’, Ari?” he’d say if he noticed Harry watching him, his accent so much more pronounced than it is now. Sometimes Harry would roll over and go back to sleep; sometimes he’d stay up and finish the match with him. Never seemed to bother Niall much either way.

He’s been quiet for too long, Harry realizes, waiting for Niall to be eighteen again, his teeth still out of perfect alignment. Harry misses that sometimes, Niall’s old crooked smile. He looks good now, just. Not as much like the kid Harry first met. “Good night,” Harry whispers.

“Good night,” Niall murmurs back.

Harry puts his back to Niall and watches the red numbers on the alarm clock beside the bed tick away the hours, his eyes burning. Still he can’t fall asleep. He can hear Niall breathing, deep and even, so he rolls onto his back to look at him. His mouth’s a little bit ajar and his face is so smooth, worry-free. He looks the tiniest bit like Theo. “Niall?” Harry asks softly. Niall doesn’t so much as twitch. “Niall?” Harry says, a bit louder. Harry relaxes, contented that he’s actually proper asleep.

So Niall doesn’t notice when Harry slides out of bed and goes rooting around Niall’s bag for a pair of trackies and a shirt. Niall’s packed one of those white henleys he wore all throughout this last tour, so Harry quickly shucks his skinny jeans and pulls Niall’s clothes on. He closes the door behind him quietly. This flat came with gym access but Harry heads for the stairs, instead, and the front door.

Even though it’s five o’clock in the morning, there are still people out and about celebrating the new year. It’s cold in New York, but not nearly as cold as London, and Harry warms up quickly with his feet pounding the pavement outside. With his hair tucked into a beanie and his face turned down, earbuds in his ears, he could be anybody. Any of these people on the streets. There’s a lad in an NYU sweatshirt puking his guts out into the gutter, a girl’s arm around his waist. A woman in her thirties or forties flags down a taxi, her makeup running a little around her eyes, her heels dangling from her hand.

It’s only a five-mile jog from Harry’s new flat to Central Park, so he extends his route by running an extra three blocks to the Empire State Building and back to Eighth Avenue, and then detouring again to run through Times Square by himself without shutting down the crosswalk, in honor of Liam.

By the time he comes to a stop at Central Park, his chest heaving, his forehead damp with sweat, the sun is just breaking over the reservoir. The trees are mostly barren and the water is gray and cold-looking even from the top of the rise Harry’s standing on, but sunlight races across the surface of the water and sparkles on top of the soil-dirtied snow heaped up in uneven piles on the ground, and it’s beautiful. Harry doesn’t let himself sit down because he’s more than a little worried about getting frozen to the spot if he stops moving, so he only stays long enough for the birds to start singing and for the sounds of morning traffic to get louder – trash collectors moving about, sirens echoing across the park, vendors opening their stalls to sell roasted peanuts and hot dogs – and he turns back toward home.

He waves hello and goodbye to Wes, who’s just being relieved by another older gentleman, and takes the lift straight up. He kicks his shoes off at the door and peels his socks off on the way to the bedroom, pulling his shirt off over his head as he goes. Harry slides back under the covers sure he can get a solid two or three hours’ rest. Niall shuffles a bit in his sleep, mumbling. “You smell,” he murmurs. Harry just shushes him and cuddles up to Niall’s chest, as much as he can without touching him. Niall nudges his socked foot between Harry’s. Harry’s heavy eyes finally close, and he sleeps.

 

***

 

When Harry wakes up, he can tell it’s late. The daylight filtering through the window, the curtains pulled aside, is the deep violet of twilight, and he feels well-rested. Like he’s slept for more than three consecutive hours. Harry stretches out under the covers, arching his back so that maybe his vertebrae will pop and – _ah,_ that’s the ticket.

“Please tell me you’re not getting off,” Niall says, from the en suite. Harry looks over, letting out a surprised noise. “Not that I haven’t heard it before,” Niall grimaces, “but.” He maintains eye contact with himself in the mirror, shaving cream smeared over his chin and cheeks.

“Why are you shaving?” Harry asks.

“Some of us have to do that, Harold,” Niall grins, finally looking over at him. Harry huffs and throws back the covers, sliding his legs out of bed. He starts in on a few basic yoga poses, trying to get his muscles stretched out and warm, and Niall hums absently under his breath.

Niall hisses. “Ow.” Harry stops trying to get one last satisfying pop out of his spine and looks round. He’s nicked his chin, so Harry scrambles up to have a closer look. “It’s a scratch, Haz,” Niall rolls his eyes.

Harry makes him tilt his head back so he can see for sure. “Is that the razor you’re using?” Harry demands, plucking it off the counter. “Niall. It’s practically – I’m pretty sure they give these to inmates in jail.”

He clucks his tongue and switches the razor to his right hand, and Niall’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

“Relax,” Harry says, even slower than usual. “Gemma used to make me help her shave her legs before a date.” He remembers sixteen year-old Gemma, her hair dark and short, her jeans rolled up to her knees with her legs kicked up on the edge of the bath while she was sat on the toilet applying her makeup. She could get ready in about five minutes, with a bit of help.

Niall’s face softens. “Mummy’s boy,” he says, so softly it doesn’t sound like a jibe. Harry wonders if Gemma’s got anybody to help her now. He’s probably being ridiculous, of course she’s got loads of friends. Still, though. “Don’t get distracted, now,” says Niall.

“I’m not,” Harry says, so quietly he wonders if Niall even heard him at all. He takes particular care with the dimple in Niall’s chin and the little valley above his lips, below his nose. He wipes the extra shaving cream off with his thumb when he’s done. He thumbs over Niall’s cheek, brushing his lips, to check his work. Harry realizes what he’s doing and apologizes, backing away. Niall turns to examine himself in the mirror.

“Good work,” Niall says. His voice is steady as ever, even if there’s something a little wild in his eyes. “At least we know you can do a fine job shaving if you ever grow a beard.”

Harry accepts the invitation to laugh, the dismissal of the moment, with a sigh and a smile. “I’m younger than you,” he reminds him. Sometimes, it’s something Harry forgets himself. Everyone treats Niall like – not the baby, but the special one. The precious one. Harry’s as guilty of it as anyone.

The only one who treats Harry like the baby is Niall. “Wee babe,” Niall jokes, cuffing Harry under the chin. He bends to splash water on his face and clean off the shaving cream residue, so Harry makes himself move toward the kitchen.

There’s no reason for him to expect food to have magically appeared in the fridge since the night before. Harry shuts the fridge with a sigh and reaches for his phone, which he left on the counter after his jog this morning. He’s got eight work emails and texts from Xander and Jeff. Harry ignores the emails and taps out quick replies to their texts.

“Xander getting in soon?” Niall asks, glancing down at Harry’s phone.

“Yeah, plane just touched down,” Harry says. He scratches his stomach. “Do you want to get dinner?” he asks, same time as Niall says, “Well, I better be clearing out then.” Harry stares at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Niall shrugs, quick and twitchy, like he always does when he’s anxious. Harry frowns harder. “You’ve got stuff going on, I might as well be heading back to London – ”

“London?” Harry repeats, ignoring the way his throat goes dry. “That’s so far away.”

“It’s where I live,” Niall points out.

“Why don’t you stay one more night?” Harry asks. “You can come to dinner with us?”

Niall hesitates. “Really?” Why does he sound so doubtful? Harry wonders. Then he wonders when the last time he invited him to one of Jeff’s dos was.

“Yeah, we’re probably going for sushi, then maybe dancing? Xander’s bringing a bunch of his contacts, Jeff says it’s probably a good networking opportunity.” He scratches the back of his calf with his toe, because Niall’s looking at him funny. “What?” he asks, self-consciously.

“Nothing,” Niall says. “Just, you didn’t sound much like yourself there.”

“You’re the one that does the accents,” Harry says. He sounds unsure to his own ears. Something about – something about the way Niall looked at him, or the way he sounded to himself, or something – is making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.   

Niall licks his lips, glancing away for a second.  “Thanks for the invite, Haz,” Niall says, making up his mind, “but I really should be on my way.”

“Not even for one more night?” Harry presses, even though he knows Niall’s not likely to change his mind. “It’s already late, practically the middle of the night –”

“I have to go,” Niall breaks in, his voice firm. Not harsh, or cruel, just. Set. Immovable. Harry slumps. “I’ve got a date to keep.”

Harry feels as duck-footed and awkward as he ever has, getting rejected for the umpteenth time by a boy he loves. “At least let me drive you to the airport,” he says quietly. Niall relents.

So Harry steps into the loo for a quick shower. Sometimes it’s still a shock to see himself in the mirror with all this dark ink all over his skin. It’s funny, but after a while, you don’t really notice your tattoos anymore. They’re like a part of you. And sometimes, like now, Harry looks at them and it’s like they’re part of another person’s life. Harry shakes his head, takes his clothes off, and soaps up. Niall’s left his own body wash on the edge of the tub, so Harry helps himself to some.

By the time he’s done with his shower, Niall has his bag packed and waiting in the little entryway near the door. He’s sat on the couch with his head in his hand, thumbing through apps on his phone. Harry lingers for a moment just to watch him, imagining him there all the time. But Niall’s spent just about as much time in this flat as Harry has in one sleepover, and this isn’t even really Harry’s furniture.

“Ready to go?” he asks. Niall nods and they take the lift downstairs to the parking garage beneath the condo building. Harry had a few cars moved over here from the Azoff’s garage, but he can’t remember which ones, so he tells the valet to bring around any of them.

“You and these fancy-ass cars,” Niall snorts, when the driver pulls around his white convertible. It’s a gorgeous car. Harry doesn’t know what Niall’s on about.

Harry puts his hands on his hips. “Do you want to drive?”

“You want me to drive your priceless antique car?” Niall asks, raising his eyebrows. “I thought you got off on driving around in these things.”

“I do, but I want you to get off on driving this one,” Harry says determinedly, pressing the keys into Niall’s hand. So Niall slides behind the driver’s seat and twists the keys in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life with a purr. Harry lets out a pleased sigh and slumps back against the passenger seat, going almost boneless with it. The interior smells like In ‘n’ Out and birthday cake and Jeff’s cologne, and the leather is so plush and warm.

Niall guides the car out onto the street and Harry navigates him to the airport while he fiddles with the stereo. He has a bunch of CDs in the glove box, so he sorts through them, looking for something to listen to while they’re stuck in rush hour traffic. He unearths his Walk the Moon CD. Harry hears the lyrics “You grow up when I’m not looking / We grow apart without knowing” and if his voice is a little strained as he and Niall sing along, Niall doesn’t seem to notice.

Niall pulls the car up to the kerb at the airport, and he and Harry both step out of the car. Harry pulls Niall’s bag out of the backseat for him and passes it over. Niall slings the bag over his shoulder and pulls Harry in for a hug, his arms tight and strong around Harry’s ribs. “See you soon,” he says gruffly into Harry’s ear.

“Not soon enough,” Harry says, cupping the back of Niall’s head for a second as he pulls away. He can hear cameras clicking, and he can see security moving toward them out of the corner of his eye, so he knows he needs to go back to his car. Just because people are filming, Niall leans in and kisses his cheek swiftly. Harry lets Niall go reluctantly and Niall glances back over his shoulder with a little wave before security closes around him. Harry takes a seat behind the driver’s wheel and speeds off before the fans can come any closer.

           

***

 

“Hey, hi, sorry I’m late,” Harry says, sliding into the booth next to Xander a little breathlessly. “Traffic, you know.”

In fact it’s almost ten o’clock at night on a weekday, so it’s one of the few times of day that traffic’s reasonable in New York City, but Harry hasn’t got a better excuse. He’s just been driving aimlessly around the boroughs stopping at random intervals to take pictures of the graffiti he likes. He’ll print them out and stick them in his journal like bookmarks, even though that’s the last thing they’re like.

Xander squeezes his shoulder and passes him a menu, nodding like he gets it. “All good, Hersh. I already ordered us some California rolls and sake.”

“I’m going vegetarian,” Harry tells him. “For new year’s.”

Xander scoffs out loud. “Yeah, right.”

“What?” Harry demands.

“Like you won’t be right there with the rest of us at In ‘n’ Out for burgers and fries after the next night out in LA,” Xander laughs. Some of his friends laugh, too. Harry’s used to people laughing at him, but not in, like. Not in a way that makes him feel small. Harry’s not much in the mood for drinking right now, either. Part of him wonders why he came out at all when he’d so much rather be sat at home with a cheese pizza flipping back and forth between Cake Masters and Say Yes to the Dress.

But Jeff made such a point about saying how good it looks for him to be out and about with these film producers and sound mixers and athletes. Professional and adult and hard-working. Right now he just feels young and tired. He just put his first band, his baby, on the shelf. He wants to, like. Talk about it. But everyone here’s so much older. It’d probably sound silly.

So Harry drinks the sake Xander pushes toward him and picks apart the California rolls for the rice and avocado, leaving the salmon untouched, and concentrates on keeping up appearances.

Xander and his friends and Harry go to a nightclub next, Harry’s not even sure of the name, where the lights are so dark that he apologizes continuously for bumping into people on the dance floor. He finds one of those curving leather couches on the loft upstairs and thumbs open his messaging app, sipping on a glass of water. He wants to talk to someone, but he’s not sure who. His thumb hovers over Gemma’s name, because she’s always been his person, but it’s been so long that it might take all night for him to make it all make sense, and maybe he couldn’t, anyway. He doesn’t think he has the energy for that tonight.

Instead, he pulls open twitter and takes a shot of his shoes, because he’s done that before. He applies a black and white filter, and then he hesitates. He’s always liked the idea of telling people more than they knew with these posts, like breadcrumbs later to be deciphered. This is maybe too much, though. Harry thinks about the fact that he can’t think of anyone to message, though, shrugs, and captions the photo, _weary feet._ No one may get the reference, but. Anyway, he’ll know. 

Xander climbs into the cab with Harry at the end of the night, smelling of musk and sweat and that particular cologne that always smells like fire to him. Like a bonfire, maybe beside the sea. Xander pays the cab fare, like always, and it’s only then that Harry realizes he’s left his car at the restaurant. He’ll have to send someone for it in the morning.

Wes is there to greet them when Xander and Harry step into the lobby, and he smiles a little less loosely than he had last night. “Mr. Styles,” he grins. “Where’s Mr. Horan?”

“He’s got a date to keep,” Harry answers sullenly before Xander drags him away from the doorman. And it’s so different from last night, because when Xander throws himself across Harry’s couch, he knows Harry’s not got anything to drink, so he’s brought them a bottle of Dom Perignon from the club. Harry wonders idly if that’s on his tab or Harry’s, and then Xander’s skillfully prying the cork out with the corkscrew on his keychain, and Harry ducks instinctively from the cork even though he knows he doesn’t really have to.

Xander puts his arm around Harry’s shoulders again and holds him tight to his side. It feels like a hug, and Harry relaxes against him without thinking about it any further. Or he would, if Xander didn’t turn into him a little bit and put his other hand on Harry’s thigh. His face grazes the side of Harry’s head and he can feel Xander’s breath on his ear, and it’s. Like, yeah, this is one of his good mates, and Harry feels a little guilty for enjoying it, but. He’s missed, like, being close to someone.  

“Getting pretty late,” Harry says. Maybe Xander will want to kip on the couch tonight. If he’s not too hungover tomorrow, maybe Harry can get the ingredients for frittatas and Xander will cook breakfast for him.

“Just what I was thinking,” he breathes, blowing Harry’s hair into his face. “Want to go to bed?” He gives the top of Harry’s thigh a deliberate squeeze.

Harry bites his lip, confused. Oh, God, was he talking out loud about how much he liked Xander’s wide palm on his leg? He’s thought out loud before. It can be so embarrassing. Maybe Xander’s just teasing him. “You’re pissed.”

Xander snorts, “God, you’re dense,” and starts kissing up the column of Harry’s throat, his thumb pressing into the hollow under his collarbone.

And it’s like, why not, right? Harry hardly ever says no to something he hasn’t tried before. He wants it, in a way. To feel his weight, solid and heavy and real, pressing him into the couch so that he can’t move. He could even fall asleep like this. But when Xander goes for his belt, Harry decides this isn’t something he particularly wants to go any further. He’s just. He smells like a bonfire and his stubble grates against Harry’s skin in a way that sends shivers down his spine, but he’s too heavy and his button-down is still cool from the wind blowing outside and he doesn’t laugh softly between kisses.

“Um, no, thank you,” Harry says, pushing on him a bit.

Xander sits back on his heels. “What, did you have too much to drink?”

Actually, Harry feels like maybe he had too little. “No, just.” He bites his lip.

“It’s okay if you haven’t, like, done this before,” Xander says, which is sweet, but not the point. “Just, I wasn’t sure until Jeff said to ignore the stuff about you and Niall. But if you weren’t against dating a guy,” Xander swallows.

“Ah,” Harry says. “Um, I’m sorry. But, uh.”  

“You took me on tour with you,” Xander says. “You met my family. I thought – ”

Harry watches him pace back and forth in front of the TV. “I’m sorry,” he says haplessly. He can’t think of what else to say. Guilt is settling in his chest like a ten-ton weight, and Harry has to try very hard to keep him chin from wobbling. Even he knows this isn’t about him. God, he’s such an arsehole.

“Well,” Xander stops, turning on his heel. “We could give it a try? Tonight. No strings attached. No feelings. Just to see.”

“I…that’s, like, a really nice offer,” Harry starts awkwardly, “but, um. No, thank you.”

Xander’s shoulders drop. “I don’t get it. You seemed into me.”

And, like. Maybe that’s fair. Harry doesn’t want to tell him he was really into his life, so he bites his lip. “I don’t think it’d be, like, honest.”

“But you’re not really dating him,” Xander points out. “It’s just pretend.”

“I’m not dating you, either,” Harry snaps. Tears burn in the corners of his eyes and he swallows hard, raking a hand through his overgrown hair. “Sorry. God, Xander, I’m so sorry.”

Xander just shakes his head. He plucks his coat off the rack by the door and starts sliding his arm into the sleeves. Harry watches him get ready to go and he wants to ask him to stay, but he knows he doesn’t have any right to. It’s better for Xander if he lets him go, even though Harry will hate staying in this big empty flat by himself. “It’s my fault. I should’ve known better than to get involved with a kid.”

Xander lets himself out, closing the door behind him with a quiet snick. Harry doesn’t bother to get up and turn the lock. He just kicks his legs up over the arm of the sofa and closes his eyes, letting the soothing sounds of a woman selling workout gear in an infomercial fill his mind with gray static. It’s not quite sleep, but it’s close enough.

 

***

 

Harry waits until dawn breaks to call a car to pick up his convertible from the restaurant. He’s standing beside the driver-side door fishing in his jeans for the car keys when he spots Nadine walking down the street, a purse dangling from the crook of her arm, her lips painted bright red. He calls out to her without thinking. “Nadine!”

Her head doesn’t turn, of course, so Harry stops trying to wrangle his car keys out of his jeans – that must’ve gotten stretched out in the wash, or something, if the way they’re sagging around his knees is any indication – and hurries across the street. “Nadine,” he says, touching her elbow, and she turns quickly. “Hi,” Harry says.

“Harry,” Nadine smiles, her face breaking out of that public mask she wears when she’s out and about, her face half-frozen in a smirk. She looks so young when she smiles. Nadine pulls Harry into a hug and he smells her perfume, which has always smelled a bit like a library to him, in a good way. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Yeah, same,” Harry agrees. He hasn’t seen her since that evening at Jeff’s what feels like ages now, during promo season. She still looks lovely. It’s weird how people can come to represent phases in your life. Harry looks at her, and he sees that month and a half between promo-ing Four and going on tour, and she’s late nights smelling of In ‘n’ Out and exhaust, the windows down as they drove along I-10, and frozen yogurt and hikes out in Runyon Canyon or in Angeles National Forest. She’s as far away from home as he’s ever felt. “Do you want to get breakfast or something, catch up?”

Nadine answers, “I’m actually on my way to a shoot, Haz, I’m sorry.”

“Can I come with you?” Harry asks. He’d done it before, when she was doing a make-up ad, her face totally transformed by the stuff they put on her. She didn’t even look like herself when they were done, which was both weird and very cool.

“I don’t think you should,” Nadine says.

Harry stops mentally calculating the distance from here to the shoot, where he should park his car, whether the parking meter will give him enough time or he’ll have to come back halfway through and refill it. “Why not?” he asks.

“Do you want to know a conversation I had with Taylor Swift?” Nadine asks.

Oh, no, Harry thinks. “Oh, no,” he says.

“She said you have a way of becoming the sun,” Nadine says anyway. “But I don’t want to revolve around you. It just – it’s too easy, you know? I like you too much.”

“Is that why we broke up?” Harry asks. It’s seeming like now or never, and he wants to know. “Why’d we break up? Was I awful to you?”

Nadine sighs. “No, you were lovely when you were there. It was just getting you to stay that was hard.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. It seems like the only thing he can say.

“Me, too,” Nadine says. “Still, though. It was good to see you.”

“You, too,” Harry replies automatically. He wants to give her a hug goodbye, but it’s not goodbye, really. They can still be friends, thanks to her. “Have a good shoot.”

“See you around.”

He watches her walk up the street, her purse balanced in the crook of her arm, that picture-perfect paparazzi smirk frozen on her face, and he thinks about how she’ll always be his _what-if_. If only.

It’s a foolish thing to do but he’s not really thinking when he turns down the street and wanders away from his car. Wanting to be in motion. New York City’s not Los Angeles, with those wide-open highways leading into the desert to fly along when he’s got too much on his mind. He can go faster on foot. He grabs a hat from the backseat of the car and pulls it down over his ears, hoping that’s disguise enough.

For a city that never sleeps, New York takes a while to wake up. Harry watches the big yellow school buses drive around to collect children with puffy eyes and sleepy slants for mouths, and the lights go on at a dry cleaners’ and the bodega on the street corner. Traffic picks up, the streets filling with cars until they’re gridlocked. People still lay on their horns and swear, Harry can tell by their faces, a vein in one woman’s neck so prominent he’s a little scared it’s about to burst, but it’s not anyone’s fault, really.

He turns down a side street when it seems like a woman in her twenties may have recognized him, and he winds up a building with a grand entryway. It makes Harry stop, thinking maybe he’ll take a picture, and he sees the marquis out front, the banners in the windows on either side of the doors. The Rubin Museum of Art. He’s always complained that they don’t get enough time to see stuff on tour. Well, he’s got time now. Harry goes in.

The clerk behind the counter swipes his credit card, sparing a dull glance at his name, and then his eyes widen, and he looks up. Harry grins back weakly. “Enjoy the museum,” the clerk says dumbly. Harry takes his card back, tucks it back into his wallet, and nods at the clerk. It bothers him more than it should, the look on his face. Like he was in awe of him, or something. Like he knew him.

Harry takes the winding staircase in the middle of the open floor all the way to the top, passing hallways filled with canvases and sculptures. He and his mum and Gemma used to do it this way when he was still at school, or just a boy. If you start from the top down, then you can see everything on your way back to ground level. Harry can still remember taking trips as a little lad and sitting down on a bench in front of some piece of art to rest, and waking up in his mum’s arms, her nimble fingers securing him to the car seat. He was always so upset he’d missed anything.

The exhibit about Himalayan art keeps Harry’s attention for a long time, the way everything looks so old even if it’s been made new. A tradition. There’s another exhibit on masks that he only looks at for a moment before he hurries on, the exaggerated faces too knowing and haunting and familiar for him to bear for long.

The hallways and rooms filled with paintings are his favorite. He takes pictures of the ones he likes best, mindful to keep the flash off. He’s turning a corner, wandering from one spot-lighted room to another, when he finds himself face to face with a painting of a hand as tall as he is. A map has been overlaid on the picture of the hand so that it looks like the whole world is there, and Harry sinks down onto the bench in front of the painting, staring at it. He’s not even sure what’s so compelling about it, just.

It makes him think of the band, is all. The hand shows four fingers, the thumb across the palm, with a map of the world spread across the image. There’s a blurb on the wall next to the painting telling about how the hand represents a single person, but Harry looks at the painting and sees One Direction. Four fingers standing together, small against the white-capped waves in the background, reaching up toward the stars. The fifth finger is still there, it’s just drawing in, touching home.

Harry thinks about taking a picture, but he can’t bring himself to. The colors might be captured slightly off, and if he takes a picture of it, it’ll look smaller than it is in real life. He can’t bear the thought of distorting this image. Harry stays to look at it until his stomach rumbles too loudly to ignore anymore, and then he goes to collect his car and finally take it home.

Wes isn’t there in the lobby – his shift probably hasn’t started yet – so Harry waves hello at the other chap, takes the lift up to his flat, and gathers his things. He’s booked the first flight back to LA.

 

***

 

Harry’s house is just as he left it when he took the plane to New York for Rockin’ Eve. He’s not sure why he’s disappointed like that, like maybe there will have been someone else here, or something. To be fair, he spends most of his time at Jeff’s or Cal’s, but. It’s just, his bath towel is still draped over the foot of the bed and his cleaning service has picked up the hair ties that spilled out of the package when he went to grab a new one before the car came to get him, but. Harry can still smell his own cologne on the air, and see his own footprints in the vacuumed carpet, and it feels a little emptier than it had when he left.

Jeff gets in from London in a few days, and most of Harry’s friends are still back home for the holidays. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and idly thumbs through his contacts, looking for someone to get lunch with him. “James,” he says, surprised when Corden picks up.

“You called _me,_ ” Cordo laughs, and Harry relaxes, leaning against the wall between the kitchen and the living room. He almost knocks a canvas over, so he leaps away from the wall, yelping when he almost twists his ankle, and sets the painting back up to lean against the wall before he can damage it. “Don’t tell me you’ve butt-dialed me while you’re having sex again,” Cordo whines. He laughs.

“That’s never happened,” insists Harry, grinning.

“See what I say on the Late Show,” Corden jokes.

Harry starts going along his walls, turning all the canvases out. He’s had the paint facing the wall to preserve them from sunlight damage, and he’s a little surprised at the ones he himself had chosen just a few months ago. He’s picked out a lot more blues and greens than the burnished reds and glowing golds he remembers. “I was just calling to see if you wanted to grab brekkie,” Harry tells him.

Corden heaves a long-suffering sigh. “What time do you think it is right now, Harold?”

“Uh.” Harry glances down at his phone – six o’clock – and then out the window, where the sun is either rising or setting, half hidden behind brown California hills. “Late for breakfast?” Harry guesses. “How about dinner?”

“Breakfast actually works better,” Corden says, his voice going spacey so that Harry can tell he’s put him on speaker while he thumbs through his crowded calendar app. He’s probably got lots of sessions of driving around with celebrities to get through. “How about tomorrow?”

Harry nods, “Sure,” and Cordo says disbelievingly, “Really? I would’ve thought your schedule was too packed for little old me.”

“Bring Max and Carey,” Harry just says, Corden laughing while he disconnects the call.

Harry slept most of the way back from New York, and even though he feels like he could lay down and sleep for another ten hours or so, he can’t settle down long enough to get sleepy. He wanders from room to room in his big Californian house, looking at his collection of odds and ends. He finally has a fridge now, but there’s still nothing in it except half a pack of Red Bull and a couple of uneaten granola bars Harry threw in there after his last hiking trip.

One of his spare rooms has bookshelves lined with volumes his interior decorator picked out from used book shops all over the area, some of them with the most interesting titles. Harry’s own journals sit on their own shelf at the top of a stack, a whole row of red leather books filled with Harry’s thoughts. He goes to find a step ladder he’s pretty sure he’s not just dreamt of in the garage, but he gets distracted the moment he steps out of the house, the tinny aluminum garage door moaning a little against the sea breeze. Harry’s Harley is there under a white sheet, so Harry throws the white sheet off. It kicks up a wave of dust and Harry coughs, his eyes watering. Under the sheet, the Harley is still glittering, a beautiful little machine.

Without giving it another thought, Harry picks the helmet up off the seat and slides it on over his head. His hair’s so long now that it’s properly inconvenient, sticking out a little under the bottom of the helmet and itching his collar, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. He grabs the remote for the garage and hits the button, clipping the garage remote to his belt, and then he sits on the motorcycle and cranks it on. It roars to life like a lion. Harry can feel the wild grin spreading across his face. The garage door rumbles closed behind him as Harry peels out of the driveway, the wheels spinning over asphalt as he roars up the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean spanning on what feels like forever to his left, mountains to his right. It’s not quite flying, but it’s close.

“You look like you blow-dried your hair with a jet engine,” Corden says when he looks up and sees Harry approaching him at the restaurant. Cordo and his family are sat at a couple of little tables pushed together to accommodate all four of them plus Harry.

“Close,” Harry says. “A Harley.”

Corden scoffs disbelievingly while Harry kisses Julia on the cheek. He ruffles Max’s hair and leans in to press a kiss to the top of Carey’s soft head. He must be, what, closing in on two now? But he’s still so tiny and precious, wee and babbling and sweet. Harry can hardly believe that Lux was even smaller than that once.

“If you’re driving that thing around I’ve got to get my family off the streets,” James says, pulling a chair out for Harry while he sits down himself. “No more daycare, no more playdates, no more getting our hair done,” James goes on.

“Hey,” Harry complains mildly. “I’m not that bad.”

“Besides, it’s not like you’re any better,” Julia points out, so she and James launch into an oft-had argument about his skill as an interviewer on the go. Harry turns to Max and helps him solve the little word search with the crayons that the server gave him when they were sat at this pancake house.

The whole place smells like frying batter and syrup, and Harry’s stomach gives an uneasy lurch. He’s been living on craft services for the better part of a month; this is all a bit much for his digestive system. He sips on a glass of iced water while he peruses the menu.

“Looking for the most boring thing they’ve got?” Corden asks, quite close to Harry’s ear, his tone wry.

Harry scowls, pulling the menu away from Corden’s prying eyes. “As a matter of fact, yes. I’m going to have the wheat toast and a fruit bowl. What are you having?”

James opens his mouth to respond and Julia cuts him off smoothly. “He’s having the egg white omelette with turkey bacon, isn’t he, Max?”

All three grown-ups look to Max, who’s tapping idly on James’s phone, prodding a digital fish away from a smaller beta. “Can I have the chocolate pancakes?” he asks. Julia and James say no at once, but Harry winks at him when they’ve gone back to bickering over James’s cholesterol levels.

While they wait for James’s omelette, Julia’s waffles, and Harry’s chocolate pancakes to cook, James and Harry get caught up. Apparently the Late Late Show is a lot more work than Craig Ferguson ever made it look like, and it’s like a political minefield trying to talk celebrities into making an appearance. Everybody wants the top-billed spot, and nobody wants to be there when any of those reality TV show contestants show up to promo Survivor.

Harry knows quite a lot of actors but he’s never heard them say anything like that before, so he nods along a little cluelessly, watching James’s eyes get lighter and lighter blue the more excited he gets.

“Has Harvey Weinstein still been getting onto you?” James asks, cutting Harry a sly sideways look while he cuts his omelette into bite-sized pieces. Harry does the same for his pancake, slipping pieces onto Max’s plate when he’s pretty sure Julia and Cordo aren’t looking.

Groaning, Harry nods. “He’s ruthless,” he complains, plucking the maraschino cherry nose out of the whipped cream smiley face on top of his pancake and popping it into his mouth. “I’m about to give in just to make him happy.”

“Well, you might give it a try before you decide you hate it,” Julia says, mopping up a bit of the orange juice Carey’s just dumped all over his head with one hand without looking.

Cordo nods along. “Yeah, give it a proper shot, you might like it. I’m sure there’s someone you know and like who can show you the ropes?”

Harry drags his fork through the whipped cream smiley, thinking hard. “I guess, yeah,” he admits reluctantly.

“I’m sure it’ll be a struggle to fit it between the other stuff you’ve got going on,” James adds, like he’s letting Harry off the hook. Harry raises his head to look at him and James is studying him piercingly, his blue eyes just a shade off. Harry shivers and looks away, uncomfortable.

“I’ll make the time,” Harry insists. “I know Cara’s on a job, I’ll give her a ring.”

“Good,” James smiles, settling back into his seat. He plucks a bite of chocolate pancake off of Max’s plate and eats it himself despite Julia’s exasperated sigh. Harry scowls at him, realizing he’s been played.

Cara doesn’t pick up the phone, but it’s not like Harry expected her to. He calls Annie instead. His assistant had been downright puzzled when Harry rang her for their numbers, although she sounded hopeful. He hasn’t been giving her quite as much to do as he used to these days.

“Harry Styles?” Annie repeats him doubtfully when Harry introduces himself.

“Yeah, from – from One Direction,” Harry says, wondering if that’s quite true now. For now. He sings a couple of bars of “Story of My Life” and she coughs and clears her throat.

“Oh, no – right, yes, I know who you are. Why are you calling me?”

“I’m trying to get in touch with Cara,” Harry answers pleasantly. “I was hoping I could come to set with her one day?”

Annie’s quiet for a moment, and then she says, “No funny business, am I clear? Not that she would, but I know how you lot can be.”

Harry splutters. “I’m not – you lot, I – ”

“I know, dear,” Annie says. “I’ll text you the details.”

“Alright,” Harry says weakly. “Thank you very much.”

“Well, you know,” Annie sighs, letting out a little laugh, “I do try.”

So Harry’s waiting outside Cara’s hotel when she comes out the double doors. Actually, sweeps is a better word, her scarf trailing on the wind behind her, her lips a dark mauve. She always looks so put together, and not in an inaccessible way like Taylor sometimes was. Just, thoughtful. Elegant. Harry rolls the window down and shouts her name, and then he remembers that none of them look round at that anymore, so he starts the car and pulls up alongside her as she checks her phone, probably for the Uber driver’s message.

“Need a ride?” Harry asks.

“Fuck off,” Cara says immediately. She takes a second look at Harry’s vintage car, then at his face, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Fuck off,” she repeats, almost fondly now. “Harry Styles, as I live and breathe.”

Harry unlocks the car doors and Cara plops down in the passenger seat, fitting her giant purse under her legs. He only just stops himself from asking, “What’ve you got in there?” and asks instead, “Are you and Annie going to get married? Because you can do that now,” and then he cringes.

Cara just laughs. “Slow your roll, Styles, I’ll let you know if we need a wedding singer. Turn right up here. Yeah.” She turns sideways in the seat to look at him. Her eyes are so big and dark, it’s a little unnerving, especially the way he doesn’t blink. Harry wonders if that’s the way he looks at people, and then he has a moment of regret for the thousand or so people he must’ve done that to.

“What?” Harry asks. He feels a bit as he did at school, like he might be about to answer a question wrong.

“Annie said you’re coming to set with me,” she says. “Are you really thinking of becoming an actor, Styles?”

Harry licks his lips. “What, you think I couldn’t do it?”

“No,” Cara snorts. She sits back in her seat, plucking her own sunnies from her purse and sliding them onto her little nose. Harry always liked that about her face, even if hanging out with her always felt a little bit like chasing after the older sister that he was much too uncool for. That he had a little crush on, at the time, too. So the sister simile doesn’t quite work. Whatever. “Let’s just see, shall we? Right, up here.”

A runner at Universal Studios takes Harry’s car keys, which he’s only a tiny bit concerned about because he’s got no idea what the bloke’s name was or whether he knows how to drive manual – seems like most Americans don’t, actually – and follows Cara into the dressing rooms. She’s not wearing any make-up, so they’re only sat for a few minutes while the artist dabs on some white cream and smudges eyeliner around her eyes.

“That’s all?” Harry asks. “Lou does more to me, and I’m not meant to look like I’m even wearing make-up.”

“That’s the point,” Cara says, affecting her American accent. Harry pauses mid-step, the world feeling a bit like it does every time someone plays a B flat on the guitar, like that moment in time is vibrating in place a bit, or something. Then Harry snaps back to reality and puts his foot down well enough to keep from tripping over the toes of his suede boots. “It takes more effort to look natural than to _be_ natural,” she says. Harry nods like he understands. Really he’s just wondering whether Lou’s been having him on for the past five years.

Cara leads him to the studio, where she stops behind a bank of telly screens to have a chat with the director. He’s a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a strong French accent, but his voice has a nice timbre and Cara nods a lot like she agrees with him, so Harry decides he’s probably okay.

“Now, in this scene, you’re telling Dane,” he gestures to a young Leo DiCaprio-looking guy, “that you don’t think you can go through with changing the course of events. We’ll do a few practice takes, okay?”

So Cara and Dane get into position and Harry’s kind of distracted looking at all eight monitors trained on their faces, but then he hears Cara’s voice crack, and his head whips up in a second. There are tears on her face, and her fists are clenched like she’s only just holding herself back from a sob. The director says, “Cut!” and she sniffs, her face going back to placid and lovely and not terribly sad at all. Harry stares, his mouth hanging open.

“A little more subtle, we’ll save the big emotional confrontation for later,” the director decides, so they redo the scene again, and then again and again, until he hits upon an emotional balance that he likes. Cara comes over to Harry, accepting a bottle of water from a PA along the way.

“So?” she asks.

“Are you a robot?” Harry asks. Cara aims a bony fist at his shoulder, and Harry steps back obediently, his hands raised. “That was amazing, is all.”

Cara nods approvingly. “Yeah, thanks, I try,” she drawls. “Do you want to give it a shot? I’m sure we can fit you in as an extra. Just don’t talk, or we’ll have to pay you.”

So Harry has a little bit of make-up dabbed on his face, trades his designer shirt for a black jumper, and then he’s made to walk behind Cara and Dane with another young bloke like they’re just regular pedestrians on the street.

Only, on the first take Harry trips over his own feet, and on the second take, he has to stop and sneeze halfway through, and by the time they get around to the fifteenth take, all he really wants is for this scary French man to stop yelling at him. He’s filmed music videos and commercials before, just. It’s different, when it’s not a joke. When messing up and goofing off isn’t a part of their schtick.

“Do you think acting is your true calling?” Cara asks Harry while he changes back into his own shirt and rubs the make-up off his face with a damp cloth.

“I don’t think so,” Harry says wryly. “I’ll have to think of a way to get Harvey off my back without hurting his feelings.”

Cara rolls her eyes a bit and then she smiles, opening her arms for a hug. “Say hi to Niall for me,” she whispers in his ear, and Harry shivers, because he’s been so busy trying not to think about him that he’s almost forgotten him. “You’ll be okay.”

Harry tweaks her nose, she pats his bum, and Harry heads off. He takes his car home to swap out for his motorcycle, but it’s still just the middle of the day, the streets too full to race down. So Harry carries one of the granola bars from the fridge out to the pool with him. It’s too cold to go swimming, but the water’s nice to look at, like he could be on holiday somewhere tropical.

It’s just so quiet without someone else around telling him where to go and what to do and learning new songs to sing and rehearsing them and listening to Louis and Liam’s soft voices and Niall’s guitar-picking, a soft, soothing little note-by-note musical score to their lives.

When he can’t take it anymore, Harry calls Gemma. “Harry,” she answers, giggling. “What’s going on, little brother?”

“Nothing much, what are you doing?” he asks suspiciously, listening hard to the background. “Where are you?”

“Cool it with the third degree, babe,” Gemma snorts, her voice going back to its usual cadence. “I’m at the pubs with some friends from uni. Are you okay? You sound upset.”

“No, it’s, I – ” Harry struggles to start, and then he hears a low male voice, and he stops to listen to Gemma’s side of the phone.

“Who are you talking to?” the man asks.

Gemma answers, “It’s my little brother,” her voice a little distant, like maybe she’s pressed it to her shoulder so that Harry can’t overhear. He scowls.

“Oh, well, tell him I said hi,” the bloke says politely, his voice not the nasally drawl Harry had been imagining when his sister first told him she had a boyfriend. “We’re going just up the street, you’ll join us?”

“Yes, love, see you in a tick,” Gemma says. Then there’s the faint wet sound of a kiss, and Harry grimaces, abruptly losing all interest in the stale cold granola bar he’s been chewing on like a hamster this whole time.

“I won’t keep you,” Harry says, when Gemma puts the phone back to her ear. “Was just calling to say hi, keep in touch, like we said we would. That’s all.”

Gemma sighs. “Harry…”

“Later, Gem,” Harry says, ending the call. He sits for a moment, breathing hard, his eyes glued to his phone. He realizes he hasn’t said I love you, but instead of thumbing open the messaging app, he just stares down at his dark screen, hoping Gemma will do it first. By the time his brain clears and he looks round, the sun’s already begun to set. Harry goes to the garage, jams his helmet on his head, and rockets down the road, turning so hard at the entrance to his neighborhood that his knee just about touches the blacktop.

Harry doesn’t really have a plan, but after a while, he realizes he’s been driving in big, ever-growing spirals around his house. He avoids I-10, taking backstreets out of Beverly Hills and into the surrounding neighborhoods. He doesn’t mean to head to Highland Park, it’s just that it’s there, and it’s on the way.

He used to drive past Taylor’s house, too. Not really wanting to go in, necessarily, just checking that she was safe. Just making sure she kept the lights on. Sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of her silhouette in a window, and he’d speed up, because that wasn’t really the point. Maybe they’d have worked out. In another life. It’s not the kind of thing he likes to dwell on.

Harry takes the turn into Niall’s neighborhood slowly. His wrists ache from twisting the throttle and his ankles are starting to hurt in his tight boots, not to mention that his arse has gone numb. He’s not expecting the lights to be on at Niall’s, but they are, so Harry slows the bike and pulls up outside for a moment just to listen. Maybe the new tenants have moved in. Maybe he’s being robbed.

And then Harry notices the Range Rover in the driveway, still with that dent in the hood from the chair Louis and Liam had dropped onto it when they were recording Four last spring, and Harry’s walking toward the door and pulling his helmet off his head without a second thought. He raps his knuckles against the door, ignoring the doorbell just a few inches away. The collision of his fist with the door is a little bone-jarring, a lot welcome.

Niall opens the door narrowly at first, as if he didn’t check the security camera or the peephole before he came to answer the door, and then he opens it wider. “Harry?”

“When did you get back to town?” Harry demands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Do you feel well?” Niall asks, his brow wrinkling a bit. “Are you drunk?”

Harry stomps his foot like a child, realizes what he’s done, and makes a wordless sound of frustration. “I’m not drunk, I’m angry with you. How long have you been back?” His _Didn’t you want to see me?_ goes unasked, but he knows Niall can hear it. It’s too loud not to.

“I only just got in,” Niall soothes him, “and I’m not staying for long, so I didn’t want to bother you.”

Harry rubs at his running nose. Every spring, like clockwork, his allergies go into overdrive. He hates it. “You wouldn’t have been bothering me,” he says. Niall blanches. “Where are you going?”

“Well, my lease is up, so – ”

“Come stay with me,” Harry says, maybe a beat too fast. “I mean, if you’ve got work stuff. I’m hardly ever home anyway, might as well get some use out of the place. If you want.”

Niall hesitates. “I – listen, why don’t you come in? Can’t believe we’ve had this whole chat on the stoop, Maura Gallagher would have my head.”

Harry follows Niall to the kitchen, where he puts a kettle on the hob to brew. Then he goes over to the fridge and starts pulling out Tupperwares of leftovers. “I’ve got some cod here,” he says. “Are you still doing that vegetarian thing?”

More than a little surprised that he’s remembered, although of course he would, it’s Niall, Harry nods. “‘S that include fish?” 

“Eh,” Harry shrugs. Not when it looks like Niall’s about to make him something to eat. From another room, Harry hears a whistle blow and then a round of screaming. Harry jumps. “You have company?” he asks.

“Just Willie ‘n’ Deo and Eoghan,” Niall shrugs.

“Sorry to interrupt your match,” Harry says. He watches Niall drop a tortilla onto a skillet and let it sizzle in butter for a moment. Then he plucks it out with a pair of tongs and fills it with crumbled up bits of cod and avocado spears and tomato slices and chunks of parmesan cheese. Harry can’t even wait for Niall to bring the plate to a table before he tears into the wrap, leaning over the sink to catch his crumbs.

Harry lets out a satisfied groan. The tips of Niall’s ears get a little pink. “I take it you like it,” Niall says, drying his hands on a dishtowel hanging from the handle of the oven.

“You’re so bloody good at everything,” Harry says, cramming as much of his fish taco as he can into his mouth. A little bit of grease dribbles down the front of his shirt and he gets tomato juice on his sleeve when he tries to wipe his nose, and it’s totally worth it.

Niall’s ears get even more pink. “You don’t have to suck up to me, I’ve already cooked for you,” Niall jokes. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the counter, watching Harry with eyes that know him maybe too well.

“What’s this we heard about sucking?” Eoghan asks, coming into the room with his hand over his eyes. He holds the other hand out so that he won’t smash into any walls.

“Yeah, save it for the bedroom,” Willie rolls his eyes, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder and ruffling his hair. Harry takes a surreptitious sniff of him, because Willie’s always smelled like Bobby to him, and there it is: that Irish Springs soap, some kind of superstore cologne, and a hint of toothpaste, like he’s always just brushed. He smells a bit like Niall, too. Harry uses the last bit of his tortilla to wipe the plate clean and then sticks his plate in the sink. It’s the only dish in the depths of the stainless steel basin, so Harry wets a sponge and adds a little Dawn soap from the bottle at the edge of the sink.

Niall hasn’t moved. He’s a constant, familiar presence at Harry’s side, and even though Niall’s cousins are Harry’s friends, too, it’s nice to have him there. Safe, like. “Where are you lot off to?”

“Batting cages,” Deo answers, tearing his eyes away from his phone. “You want in?”

Niall hesitates, his eyes almost but not quite reaching Harry. He works his jaw, studying the floor. “Sure,” Harry answers for him. Niall likes baseball. Even Liam likes baseball, and he can barely be kept still long enough to sit through a soccer half. He always comes looking for Harry or Niall to entertain him when Louis gives him the boot to watch a Rovers game. “Yeah?” he checks, handing Niall the wet dish. Niall plucks the rag off of the oven handle and dries the plate with swift strokes.

“Sounds good,” Niall decides, putting the dish on the drying rack next to the sink. He balls his hand up in the dish towel, so Harry faffs about killing time until the rest of the guys wander out of the room to sort their hair and reapply cologne and deodorant.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asks.

Niall gives a quick twitch of his head, a dismissal. Harry studies the line of his back where he’s turned away from Harry. He’s always so conscientious of himself, of the way he comes off, but that never stopped him from all but forgetting that he’d broken his foot. There were some nights he’d come off stage with his foot swollen so much they’d have to pry the boot off of him to ice it down. It still makes Harry almost sick to his stomach to think about, so he puts his hand on Niall’s shoulder and gives him a friendly squeeze. “You can tell me,” he tells Niall lowly. “No secrets between us, right?”

When Niall looks up, it’s like he’s seen a ghost, his eyes are so wide and blue. Even Harry can’t remember the last time one of them brought up the promises they swore to each other all the way back at Robin’s bungalow. Louis’d almost insisted on a blood oath until Liam got all squeamish about transferring diseases around and stuff, so they’d only been able to swear, but.

Lately, since March, maybe, they’ve not been able to call on those promises at band meetings or meetings with the label or just before shows, when Louis’s a little too thrashed or Liam’s started checking his watch every other half-minute again like he used to. It’s not like going home is, where Harry feels like growing up in Holmes Chapel was part of another life. Those promises feel like another person’s entirely.

Since March everything’s different, just not in the way anyone thought when they promised each other it was all of them or none. Not in the way Harry thought when Zayn phoned to say he wasn’t coming back.

“You promise?” Niall asks.

Harry hesitates. Niall’s looking at him right in the eye, unwaveringly. Harry can see the hope written all over his face, and he’s confused, because he thought maybe Niall had forgotten, too, or maybe that he felt the same as Harry. Too much has changed for them to keep the promises made by a bunch of teenagers before they even knew what they were getting themselves into.

“I promise,” Harry says. Niall’s shoulders slump a little, going looser, more relaxed.

“Alright then,” he says, offering Harry a little smile. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

“I’ll be here,” Harry says dumbly. He can still hear the other blokes arguing over the bathroom and whose stick of deodorant belongs to whom, but all he can see is the curve of Niall’s back as he walks away and the look on his face when he wasn’t sure what Harry would do. It’s not a look Harry’s particularly fond of.

Eoghan calls shotgun, so Harry’s wedged between Willie and Deo in the backseat while Niall drives them to Rex’s Baseball Batting Cage, his phone in his right hand on his lap.

“You know it’s illegal to text and drive,” Harry says, after Niall glances down at the map for maybe the twentieth time.

The Irish lads scoff. “He’s not texting,” Eoghan points out brilliantly.

“You sound like a proper American,” Willie teases him, nudging Harry in the ribs. “Go on, then, tell us all about your presidential campaigns and your fast food.”

Harry folds his arms across his chest, fighting a smile. Niall glances into the rearview mirror and catches his eye for a second before he looks away. “That’s an important topic,” Harry whines, “and I’m off fast food. I’m vegetarian now.”

Eoghan, Willie, and Deo all cry out. “Listen to your posh California boyfriend,” Deo says, leaning out of his seat to pinch Niall’s pink cheek.

“It’s healthy,” Harry points out, positively beaming now.

“At least in London the streets make sense,” Niall grumbles, jerking the wheel so that they go flying around the corner. Harry’s pretty sure they go up on two tires, and he grabs the back of Niall’s seat for dear life.

He swallows. “The streets here make sense,” he says. “You’ve just not given them enough of a chance.”

“Not enough time,” Niall replies quickly, his eyes on his phone. His shoulders have gone up a bit, defensive-like. “I like to go home on holiday.”

“Or to Australia,” Harry points out. He knows he’s being catty but he can’t stop, not when Niall won’t even look at him. “Spent most of last winter there, as I seem to recall.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you noticed,” Niall replies, his tone airy, “thought you would’ve been too busy frolicking around LA with Nadine.”

Harry snaps, “Of course I noticed,” biting his lip. He watches Niall fidget with the phone in his lap and a bit of hair above his ear and abruptly he feels so guilty, watching Niall pick himself apart like this. But he can’t bring himself to say sorry, not when he can still remember picking up a magazine at the airport on the way home from the ARIAs and seeing Niall’s blurry head snuggled up to some girl’s face.

“Okay,” Willie drawls, his eyebrows up. “Are we close, then? Because I can walk the rest of the way if you two want to talk.”

“We’re here,” Niall says shortly, jerking the wheel and taking them into a big cracked carpark, weeds shooting up in the spaces between slabs of cement.

Harry never stops being surprised at how much space for parking there is in America, although he’s heard that’s what the middle of it is, mostly, poured flat cement to keep the prairie grass from creeping back in. Harry’s driven through it a few times now, he thinks, watching the brilliant blue sky fade to russet and gold and then violet and black on his back in the tour bus. Funny, but he doesn’t remember any of the land, just the color of the sky.

Sometimes he’d sit up late at the little table at the front of the bus with his journal open in front of him, carefully copying over poems that he liked or writing his own, doodling in the margins when he got bored or distracted. He’s got the lyric “You are in love,” scribbled in the margins of a journal from 2012, the first time Taylor ever said it, and they both knew it was going to be a lyric. That it had to be a lyric someday.

If Louis had Eleanor out or was off on one of his adventures with Liam, sometimes Zayn would sit up and sketch across the table from Harry while he marked up his journal. He would be able to see what Harry was writing and Harry could peep over the top of his journal and see Zayn’s sketches, but they never did. Sharing it wasn’t the point so much as sharing the quiet, Zayn’s breathing low and easy.

“‘I’m flicking through the pages,’” Zayn teased him once, watching Harry scratch another star onto the border of half a song, “‘I’ve written in my memory.’”

Harry scowled back jokingly, but he still feels shivers climbing his spine. “God, that’s such a great tune, isn’t it?” he’d asked, sitting back in his seat. Niall only just showed it to them the other day before a show, the bare knobs of his spine curved over the guitar. He sang each of their verses that first time, just to let them hear it, but none of them needed to ask to know which verse would be theirs. Niall wrote their bit for each boy specifically.

“D’you think that’s really all you need?” Zayn asked, watching Harry. He twirled his pencil between his long spindly fingers.

Harry just shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m pretty happy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Zayn said, fumbling the pencil. He gave Harry an awkward little half-smile, bent to retrieve his pencil, and went back to his drawing.

It’s something Harry thinks about a lot – maybe too much, to be honest, the lick of blond in Zayn’s hair falling over his eyes and the way he might’ve been trying to let Harry know, trying to ask for help when it could still be helped, and Harry had been to dense to hear it.

Deo and Willie open their doors and Harry slides out of the car, his trainers hitting the pavement just bone-jarring enough that he’s shaken out of the past. Phil’s come out to guard them with the rest of their security team on standby, but Harry’s hoping for a quiet night. As far as anyone knows, he and Niall aren’t even in LA, let alone together, so no one’s looking for them. Harry hopes to keep it that way.

Willie gets them sorted with a spot on the wide expanse of pavement used as a diamond and balls and a setting on the firing line of baseball-pitching machines that won’t knock anyone’s head off, so Deo steps up to bat first. “Kind of like a cricket bat,” he says, weighing the baseball bat in his hands.

Niall’s got his elbows set up on the ledge beside the cage, a baseball cap pulled down to help shield his face. “That’s right, Deo.”

“This is really not that much like cricket,” Willie leans over to whisper.

“I know,” Niall answers, a grin sneaking across his face.

Eoghan only gets hit in the face once, and Harry somehow manages to take softballs to the shin and his shoulder when he takes his turn inside the cage, and it’s fun, actually. They’re all wearing tattered jeans and Harry’s borrowed one of Niall’s simple white tees since he spilled food all over his own patterned top, and they could be normal lads. Even Niall, with the tips of his blond hair curling around his cap and his jaw working over a piece of gum, looks like he belongs.

Eoghan takes another turn at bat when they’ve all had a chance at it. His swings are a little sloppy from what Harry can tell, and he almost always swings too far back. He wants to warn Eoghan that he can really damage his back that way, but he’s made himself hold back so far.

“Look at that swing,” Harry hears someone mutter. He looks round, half-expecting it to be Willie teasing his cousin, and instead it’s a bloke from the spot next to theirs. They haven’t got proper cages at this place, just boxes painted onto the asphalt for them to stand in so that the batters won’t clock each other, so the other bloke wanders over without any problem. Harry wants to put up a wall, or for Phil to step in his way, but that’s not really their way.

“Yeah?” Eoghan asks, dropping out of swinging posture. “You got a problem with it?”

The guy shrugs. “Just that my four year-old daughter could do better than that, yeah.”

“A little girl – ” Harry starts. Niall sidles up to him, stepping on Harry’s toes so that he looks down. So that they’re not spotted.

He can almost hear Eoghan’s face light up. “Yeah? Well, I’d like to see you do a better job, you fucking slag,” he laughs.

“What did you call me?” the guy asks. Harry lifts his head a bit, just to watch.

The smile drains off of Eoghan’s face. “I said…it was a joke, mate, relax.”

“No, say it again,” the guy insists. “Say it to my face.”

And now some of his friends are starting to take interest, too. They have the same kind of homogenous look Harry might’ve expected, if he’d thought about it. Soft bellies and gummy faces, red-rimmed eyes and unkempt hair. They’re all wearing baseball tees with red sleeves, and Harry thinks he recognizes the logos on their chests from a college he’s driven by a few times. A team, then. With a bat. The bloke seems to have forgotten he’s holding it, but his face gets redder the longer Harry looks, and when the wind shifts he can catch a whiff of stale beer from his reeking pores.

Harry looks for Phil – shouldn’t he be here, handling this? – when he spots him over at the concessions booth, laughing with the attendant as she fills his hands with cups of beer.

“We don’t want any problems,” Willie says. “He’s an idiot, he didn’t mean it. Just go back to your game.”

The guy looks at Willie next, and then Harry sees his eyes move to himself and Niall over Willie’s shoulder, his and Niall’s heads tucked close together, Niall’s shoulder tight against Harry’s. “Oy, so that’s why you were calling me names, you’re all just a bunch of f- ”

He never gets the rest of his sentence out. Willie’s fist makes solid contact with the bloke’s jaw so that Harry almost thinks he’s seen it go sideways before the man stumbles back, holding his face. Willie looks down at his fist almost like he’s surprised at it, but his face is grim and set.

“Oh, sh –” Niall starts, and then the rest is kind of a blur. He remembers more of the college baseball team coming closer, and then Phil’s there, a few young women in tow – “Your fans recognize me?” Harry suddenly remembers him saying ages ago, not long after he’d all but ripped Phil’s shirt off onstage at that concert – and a hand locks around his wrist. Harry tries to jerk away before he realizes it’s Niall trying to move Harry closer, put him behind Niall, like, and he’s so stunned for a moment that he doesn’t react.

He can’t hear Niall’s breathing or see his chest rising and falling too fast in all the hubbub, but he knows that look on Niall’s face. He thinks of fans breaking the car’s windows outside of LAX and Harry’s own heart trips over itself. Something big and hot unfurls in his stomach like he’s swallowed fire, and he gulps, Niall’s calloused hands still pulling him closer by the wrist.

One of the baseball players stumbles into Harry. Harry can smell his sweat and the alcohol leaking out of his pores and the warm tomato-y smell of a pizza parlor, and he can picture the scene in his mind so clearly. The losing team knocking back cups of lukewarm beer to make themselves feel better, and then picking a fight with an Irishman who takes shit-talking as a form of flattery.

Niall puts the baseball player to rights and the bloke’s fuzzy eyes focus on Niall. He must recognize him as one of that Irish dickhead’s friends, and it’s like Harry’s not even thinking when he intercepts him. He bats his big clumsy hand aside easily and pops him just once, right in the sternum. The guy drops to his knees, all the air punched out of his lungs.

This time, when Niall pulls at his wrist, Harry goes easily. Their fingers slot together and don’t let go. Niall gives him a look while Phil all but manhandles them out to the parking lot, more officers in black uniform swarming in to break up the fight.

Vulnerable’s not the right word, because Niall can do that sometimes, if you wait long enough. He looks at Harry, and Harry can see the trust in his eyes. That’s what it is. The fire in his stomach lessens, grows warm and pleasant, like a hearth. Harry swallows hard.

Phil shoves them into the backseat of Niall’s Range Rover and Deo and Eoghan squeeze in beside them. Willie climbs into the front seat beside Phil, who’s starting the car almost before Willie’s arse touches the leather. Harry still doesn’t let go of Niall’s hand.

“I can’t believe there was a mob and it had nothing to do with us,” Harry says stupidly on the drive back, when the Rover’s tires are speeding over I-10, the batting cages disappearing in the distance.

Deo splutters out a laugh, and then Willie and Eoghan are laughing too, Phil chuckling weakly and shaking his head as he looks over his shoulder to check the blind spot. He sees Harry half-piled on Niall’s lap, Niall’s face pressed against Harry’s side. Harry can hear him counting his breaths. Phil just gives him a nod and, not quite knowing what he’s agreeing to, or what he’s confirming, Harry nods back.

By the time Harry can see the turnoff for Niall’s neighborhood just a half-mile off the main boulevard they’re on, the other guys have all but decided that tonight’s fist-fight at the batting cages was a proper good scrim. Phil drops them off at Niall’s house and Willie orders a few pizzas and a couple of liters of coke, so Harry stays up with them in Niall’s living room and watches that Matt Damon in space movie. Not Interstellar, the other one. The Martian.

It’s totally Niall’s type of movie, but he’s distracted the whole time, Harry can tell. He keeps picking at his nail beds until they bleed like he used to. Harry puts his hand over Niall’s without looking at him, and Niall tenses up, but he doesn’t shake Harry off. He waits until Deo flicks off the TV and the other lads head to bed before he turns to Niall.

Niall scoffs quietly. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “‘M fine.”

“I know you are,” Harry says, watching him intently. He wants Niall to flip his hand over, palm up, and let Harry weave their fingers back together. “Do you want to, like. Do you have any stress management techniques you want to try?”

Niall sets his jaw, pulling his hand out from under Harry’s. “Stop, okay? I’m not some damsel in distress that needs saving. I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

“I know,” Harry repeats, wondering how to get them out of this endless cycle of Harry wanting to help and Niall insisting he doesn’t need it. “Maybe you can show one to me, though? To help?”

“Really?” Niall asks skeptically. “Thought you liked all that, like. Drama.”

Harry just shrugs. It doesn’t get to him as much as Niall, normally. And there weren’t any cameras. Those have really been getting to him lately. Harry curls and uncurls his fingers in his lap, watching his hand form a fist again and again. His knuckles are a little swollen, so much so that Harry’s taken his rings off and put them in his pocket. His fingers always look so skinny without them, like his sister’s, really. Like his mum’s hands.

“For you, right?” Niall checks. “And I’m only going to teach you this once, so, like.” He swallows, and Harry nods eagerly. “Counting your breath helps,” he starts, “and, like, doing something.” He fishes his keys out of his pocket and takes out one of those braid crafts that kids do in summer camp. The ones with the thin strips of plastic for the pieces, and the braid is square, somehow. Cordo has one on his keychain that Max made him, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s seen Brooklyn and Lux sat around one dressing room floor or another working on their own.

Niall starts unraveling it. “Here,” he hands it to Harry. “So, like, count your breaths and, you know, do it back up, and it helps.”

Or it would, if Harry didn’t keep forgetting to breathe with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, his hands incapable of managing four strings at once. “This is why I can’t play guitar,” he says. “I think three strings is my max.”

“Can do a mad French braid,” Niall shrugs, taking the keychain from him. “Almost as good as Liam, I mean.” Harry can see him counting and braiding regularly, finding a rhythm. By the time the whole thing is done up again in the colors of the Irish flag, Niall’s slumped a little against the couch cushions, relaxed. “Should get to bed,” he sighs, checking his watch. Harry still wants to ask him who gave it to him. He still doesn’t. “Can crash here,” Niall offers. “Haven’t got another bed but you can have the couch.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees. “Where’s your loo?”

Niall leads him down the hall. He points to one door and then pauses at another, his hand on the knob. “Hey, Haz?”

Harry stops in the doorway, turning back to him. Niall’s biting his lip again, which is unfair on too many levels to list. “Yeah?” Harry watches Niall take his hand off the door and step closer to him.

He’s so busy watching the cords in Niall’s throat move as he swallows that he jumps a little when Niall touches his hip. Niall’s fingers slip under the hem of the shirt he’s let Harry borrow, and Harry’s breath catches.

Niall’s watching him closely. “So easy,” he murmurs, and Harry can’t not, not when Niall’s looking at him like that, his voice so low and raspy and familiar, so he plants his mouth on Niall’s.

He can feel the bristles on Niall’s top lip against his own, and he smells so good and clean, like Hugo Boss and sunscreen and the toothpaste he’d used before they left for the batting cages. Harry doesn’t pull away for a breath, just waits with his forehead pressed against Niall’s until Niall finishes inhaling, and then they’re kissing again. Niall lets Harry walk him backwards until his back hits the wall.

“You know what would be cool?” Harry thinks aloud. Niall just keeps nosing down Harry’s throat until he gets to the top of his chest, and then he sets his teeth in. “If we –” Niall starts sucking, and Harry whimpers “ – if we, like, if you wrapped your legs around my waist, like they do in the movies.”

Niall licks over the new bruise at the bottom of Harry’s neck. “Standing up? How would we even do that?” Niall laughs.

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. “I think I’d have to, like, press you up against the wall quite hard. I’m not sure my back could take it.” He stops, flushing. Sometimes he forgets to think before he talks, but it’s Niall.

_Exactly_ , Harry thinks. It’s Niall.

Niall tips his head back against the wall and looks up at Harry. There’s maybe an inch or two difference in their heights, but Niall’s slumped, so it seems more pronounced. He doesn’t look small, though, the way Louis sometimes seems small to Harry. He looks tired and wrung-out and worn a little, like his dad, like the blue jeans his eyes are the color of. Tough, but worn soft. Like Harry’s favorite pair of blue jeans.

“Why’d you say no?” Niall asks.

Harry’s mouth goes dry. He gives a little cough. “What are you talking about?”

Niall’s eyes are so steady. Harry feels pinned under them, like he couldn’t move away if he wanted to, or even lie. Like Niall’s eyes have him pinned by the soul, or something like that. “In Italy,” Niall says. “When I asked you to be honest, and you said you didn’t mean what you said after Jonathon Ross – did you really not mean it?”

Harry can still hear the phantom echoes of the crowd screaming their names, Liam awkwardly half-laughing over the spike in volume when Harry announced “I’d do Niall,” to forty thousand people. Niall’s face in the dressing room after, the scariest thing Harry’s ever seen. “I…” Harry trails off. “Niall, I.”

Niall nods slowly. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and slips under Harry’s arm, ducking into his room. “Good night, Haz,” Niall says.

 

***

 

Harry wakes up at six o’clock in the morning and, with nothing else to do, starts making an apology breakfast. He’s not quite sure what the protocol is for “sorry for trying to make out with you and for all that other stuff,” so he aims high. He’s got three omelettes made with and without cheese, one vegetarian, eggs hard-boiled, and eggs poached; eight slices of toast cut diagonally and right down the middle, already buttered with real, actual butter, because Niall has that, and he’s just working on sautéing tomatoes for a kind of breakfast salad when Eoghan stumbles into the kitchen.

“What the fuck?” he asks blearily, and grabs a plate from the little stack Harry set out. Harry lets himself grin, pleased. Eoghan’s got his first bite in his mouth before he’s even sat at the table, and he’s groaning rather pornographically when Willie comes in, his hair brushed, his collar almost neat against his throat. Sometimes Harry forgets that Niall and Deo are related, but he never forgets that he and Willie are.

Willie looks over the spread with a knowing eye. “Apology breakfast?”

Harry pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and his forefinger. “Too much?”

Willie just shrugs. “I’m not complaining.”

By the time Niall makes it downstairs, his hair damp and fluffy and his cheeks flushed pink, Harry’s settled himself on one of the barstools and is getting veritably assaulted with insults by Niall’s dumbest cousin, if you want Harry’s opinion. It’s not _his_ fault Man U’s having a bad year, but they’ve had good years before, and they will again.

“You’re such an idiot!” Eoghan finally throws up his hands, Deo chuckling along.

“Been sayin’ that for ages,” Niall chimes in. He glances down at the half-devastated feast. Niall lets out a little sigh. Then he picks his head up and looks Harry in the eye. “Sleep alright?”

Actually, Harry had, sort of. It took him almost an hour to fall asleep, but his pillow smelled like Niall and he could almost hear Niall turning over every half hour in the next room. It used to drive him crazy back when they shared rooms, and it drives him crazy now, when he’s napping in the dressing room – or, well, did. The way Niall would be flopping around his end of the couch unable to keep still, and with that big dumb plastic boot that time he broke his foot, too. Still, Harry always slept better with Niall nearby.

Harry nods quickly. “You?”

“Good,” Niall answers, and Harry knows he’s forgiven. Niall picks up the last plate off the counter and selects the omelette Harry protected from the other blokes just for him, and a few Irish sausages he’d suffered to grill. The sound of them sizzling on the hob still made his stomach rumble, but all he had to do was imagine poor little Babe being taken to the butcher’s, and he lost all appetite. Niall picks out some of Harry’s fried tomatoes, as well, which surprises him.

“Thought you didn’t like tomatoes ‘cept as ketchup?” Harry asks, picking at the grout on the tiled counter.

“Melly turned me on to them,” Niall answers without much thought, trying to pull a chair out at the table with one foot and negotiating his plate and a cup of coffee in his hands. “Turns out they’re not so bad,” he adds blithely.

Harry stops trying to unearth one of the tiles from the counter. “Right, okay. Should be off, then, I guess.”

Eoghan lets out a little disappointed groan, but Niall just huffs. “You don’t have t’ do that.”

“Do what?” Harry asks, even though he very well knows what.

“Get all huffy and possessive,” Niall says. “I’m not leaving you, okay? If I did, I would’ve done it ages ago, but you’re my best mate, alright? So stop moping around trying to get into my jeans and come out golfing with us.”

Harry buys himself a moment by fidgeting with his hair. He scrapes it back from his face and ties it into a bun at the back of his head, working over his bottom lip. He can feel Eoghan’s and Willie’s and Deo’s eyes on him, and it’s for that reason he keeps himself from crying. He swallows hard, and the barstool scrapes a little on the floor when he pushes it back and slides off.

He gives a dry little cough. “I would, but I’ve got plans with Cal today.”

“Cal?” Niall asks, his eyebrows up. Harry wonders if it’s really been that long since he’s hung out with Cal outside of work.

“Yeah, you know. And I can’t cancel on him. Another time, alright?”

He doesn’t look up on his way out of the kitchen, but nobody stops him then, either.

He finds his boots at the foot of the guest room bed and his coat draped over the back of the desk chair. His motorcycle helmet is sat on the desktop, right above some boring-looking paperwork. Harry had been too flustered, and the room too dark, to see it last night. He spares it a quick glance and while Harry may not know very much about contract law, he knows a contract when he sees one. He swallows hard, tucks his helmet under his arm, and closes the door behind him.

Niall catches him outside, straddling the bike while he tries to squeeze the helmet on over his hair. He’s got such a big head as it is, he might have to take the little bun out to fit the helmet on. Niall crosses his arms over his chest and tucks his hands into his armpits and watches Harry stroke the helmet visor with his thumb. Every time Niall opens his mouth, a thin little stream of condensation comes out, it’s so cold outside.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Niall says. His voice is gone gentle now, and Harry drops his hands and looks up without meaning to. Without wanting to, sort of. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay. Only happens once every five years or so,” Harry shrugs. He knows his stupid bottom lip has gone a little wobbly and he looks down, hoping Niall hasn’t seen it.

Niall shakes his head. “No excuse for being an arse to you. I know you mean well, alright? Sometimes I just,” he makes a little frustrated sound. Harry keeps his eyes on the pavement, waiting for Niall to tell him to quit coming around. To ask him to back off and give him space. Harry’s heard it before. “I love you so much, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Sometimes I wish I loved you a little less, you know? I want to not wish you were there all the time and not forgive you the minute you say you’re sorry, but I can’t, and I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs. He feels like he might choke on the lump in his throat.

“I’m not,” Niall says. Harry looks up. Niall’s got his hands crammed into the pockets of his jeans and his face is almost set in that stony way he has, but it’s not. Harry can see how resigned, and how hopeful, he is. “But you’ve got to help me out, okay?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, I – I promise.”

“Okay.”

“You should stay with me,” Harry blurts, when Niall’s turned to go back into the house. His back is hunched against the cold and Harry can count his vertebrae through his thin blue t-shirt. His hair is almost dry, and if Harry tries hard enough, he can imagine they’re backstage somewhere, maybe the O2 – _six shows at the O2, can you believe it?_ – Niall’s hair flat like this, scoping out places to take pictures for the band’s Snapchat later. “When your lease is up. I’ve got the space, and I – I want you to.”

Niall heaves a deep, deep sigh. “Okay,” he tells Harry. “I’ll think about it.”

Harry takes the back roads to the café he’s told Cal that he’ll meet him at, so of course he gets lost. He’s got the time for that, though, and he stops every once in a while at a stop sign or at a red light to take a picture of a bit of graffiti he likes, or the old-time marquee in front of an old theatre. There’s a boxy building with fading words down the side, so Harry swipes through different filters looking for one that makes the words stand out. It’s the Grand Olympic Auditorium, which sounds fancy. Harry posts the pic to Instagram without another thought, and then he zooms off.

That’s one good thing about the bike, he thinks. He can be right out in the open, driving past a woman standing at a crosswalk reading an issue of People magazine with Harry’s own face on the cover, and still he goes unrecognized. It’s a pain keeping his license plate a secret, but it’s so worth it for moments like these. To pass by unnoticed. Even if it is a little weird. Harry wonders at what point in his life he started expecting people on the street to scream about him.

Cal’s fifteen minutes to lunch, which is alright, because Harry’s half an hour early. He’s sat at their table crumbling sugar cubes by hand into his cup of coffee when Cal arrives, and he jumps up to give him a hug and pull out his chair. As always, Cal smells like peppermint and that old man cologne, Harry doesn’t know what it’s called. He’s told Zayn about it and Zayn replied, “It’s probably not cologne, mate, it’s just old man smell,” which was no help, because Zayn’s own grandfathers smelled like food. Maybe it’s mothballs, Harry thinks, and then regrets it. That was probably rude.

“How are you?” Cal interrupts Harry’s internal rambling. “Good? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Harry answers, shaking out his napkin and draping it over his lap. The tables are covered in white tablecloths and the glasses have little sparkly gold bows tied around them for Christmas, which is so Cal it hurts. Ephemeral spaces, that’s what Cal calls them. Places to remember. Places to photograph. “Why do you ask?”

Cal raises one eyebrow at Harry like Harry’s just asked him if he should wear underwear to this shoot. Sometimes it just feels better not to. Besides, not like they haven’t dressed up as women before. Or old men. Or old women. “You’ve lost weight,” Cal says, “and you don’t look like you’ve showered in a couple of days. I don’t know. Normally when you’re out in LA –”

“Normally what, Cal?” Harry asks, tapping the edge of his menu against the tabletop.

“You look better,” Cal says honestly, as always, “not worse.”

“Well, I’m fine,” Harry says. “Everything’s great and I’m fine and I don’t want you worrying about me.” He’s quiet for a moment, pretending to read the menu. “Niall and I had a fight.” Cal sits back in his chair, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. Harry groans aloud. “It’s not funny, Cal.”

Cal just raises his hand, his mouth working around a laugh. “You two bicker more than me and my wife.”

“Cal,” Harry whines, even though he’s begun grinning himself. Suddenly he wonders why he’s been avoiding Cal for ages. He remembers Cal on their various trips around Central America, up to that big Jesus statue where he and Niall and the others took pictures together and later talked about coming back, and Harry smiles harder. Cal whips out a little Canon camera and starts to take Harry’s picture. Harry’s smile slips, and he puts his hand over the lens. “Cal,” Harry says, not smiling at all anymore.

“Sorry, just – ” Cal raises the camera cluelessly and Harry pulls at the hair around his face, hoping it obscures enough of him that no one will recognize him. Of course a few people have, but no one’s been brave enough to come say hello, which Harry is infinitely grateful for.

Just doing my job, Harry knows Cal wants to say. And maybe that’s just it. “Just,” Harry swallows, “can we not, please? I think there are enough pictures of me for right now.”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry, Haz,” Cal murmurs, shaking open a menu.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says softly. Geez, his second apology in as many hours. He’s on a roll here. Maybe he should call up Taylor, too. Ugh, no. Harry shoves that thought away quick.

The waiter delivers rolls and glasses of ice water to their table, and they settle back into a familiar rhythm. Cal was Harry’s first contact out here in LA, he thinks, although that was so long ago now he can hardly remember it. Mostly he remembers how blinding the sun was, and how warm and soft the sand at the beach was, and how here there’s a sidewalk full of peoples’ names who are more famous than Harry is. A small, selfish little part of him wonders if those people still are. He hopes so. Sort of.

“So,” Cal says, changing the topic from Harry’s observations about the sounds he’s noticed his shower makes at night, “have you decided what the band’s going to do while you’re on hiatus?”

“Eh,” Harry says, clinking his fork against his plate. He’s eaten the whole kale salad today, which is quite an accomplishment. It’s good for you, but at what price? “Right.”

“You haven’t, have you,” Cal asks wryly, plucking another salty chip off his plate. “What about all those meetings Jeff lined up for you?”

Harry rubs his nose. “They’re there.” Out there like some of Niall’s stars, in the nebulous distance where Harry feels like writing music with John Legend and the lads from Kodaline and Meghan Trainor again. Somewhere.

“Do you have writers’ block?” Cal asks.

“No, I don’t think that’s what it is,” Harry says, thinking of the journal he’d finished night before last and the new one he’s itching to crack open tonight. “Just, I don’t know. The words are there, I just can’t put them in order. I don’t know.”

Cal nods along. “Have you asked Niall to take a look?”

“Hah,” Harry chokes on his water. He dabs at the wet spot on the front of his tropical print shirt with his napkin. “No, why would I do that?”

“Well, he’s usually pretty good at translating Harry-speak into English,” Cal says.

Harry recognizes that look in his eye, and he groans. “Cal!” He puts his hands over his face. “You’re worse than my mother.”

“I am your mother,” Cal grins, and Harry smiles back.

“What are you going to do while we’re on hiatus?” Harry asks.

“Wildlife photography, maybe,” Cal answers dryly. “I’ve got the training for it.”

Harry laughs out loud. Luckily, his mouth isn’t full of water this time. “Seriously.”

Cal says, “Got a babe at home I’ve hardly seen. Figure I owe the little lad some time.”

“So does Louis,” Harry thinks aloud. “Have you seen him?”

Cal shakes his head. “Guess he’s pretty busy, but that’s to be expected. In March, maybe, I suppose.” Harry hums again, playing with his napkin. He should probably carry these around with him. Maybe like a kerchief, although every time he wears one of those around his neck, the other lads give him endless hell about it. Maybe he should stuff it down his sleeve like Niall’s dad does. He imagines Niall’s comments on that particular fashion choice and grins a little, running his thumbnail under the napkin seam. “What are you smiling about?” Cal asks.

Harry taps the toe of one boot on top of the other. “Think Niall’s going to come stay with me for a bit, actually.”

He’s expecting a joke, maybe a “Moving in together already, eh?” and a laugh, not for Cal to look so sympathetic. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”  

“Of course I am, I asked him,” Harry says defensively. “Why d’you ask?”

Cal bites the inside of his cheek. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Either of you.”

“Well, I’m not,” Harry says decisively. “Everything’s fine. We’re okay.” 

Over bites of his kale salad, Harry takes his phone out of his pocket and shows Cal the pictures of the graffiti he’s spotted around LA. “These are really nice, Haz,” Cal says, taking the phone into his hands and studying some of the shots more closely. “I still think you should go back to color photography, though. Most of your subjects are too desaturated in monochrome.”

Harry shrugs. Cal’s said so before, but he likes the way these photos look. Uncluttered, like. Like there’s one less thing to confuse them, later. Harry doesn’t even know what he means, so he just hums.

“Can I give you a bit of friendly advice?” Cal asks, watching Harry closely. “From one photographer to another.”

“Why not?” Harry asks. His smile feels a little fragile. He hopes it doesn’t look it.

“You can’t get a good portrait without sitting still.”

Harry swallows. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“What do you mean, what does it mean?” Cal asks, flagging their waiter down to get the check. “Just a bit of advice, is all.”

Cal has one last bit of advice for Harry outside on the street. “Oh, and I’ve spoken to Shauna,” Cal says, while Harry waits with him for his cab to come. He’s got a pair of Niall’s Ray-Bans on and his hair in a beanie, so he figures he’s got maybe five minutes before someone spots him. “She says you can probably schedule the break-up for March. You can talk to her about how you want to do it, of course.”

“Break up?” Harry repeats blankly.

“You and Niall,” Cal answers patiently. “Remember?”

Harry blinks. “Yeah, no, I know. March?”

“Not much longer now,” Cal comforts him, putting his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles. “Not long at all.”

 

***

 

Harry goes over to Niall’s to help him pack, although it’s Niall, so he’s already got all of his personal things packed neatly into a single suitcase. His sound equipment is boxed up and waiting for the two of them to move it out to the car Harry’s brought over.

A handful of photographers have all but moved in to a little spot on the pavement across the street from Niall’s house, so Harry and Niall let them take their picture. They’ve already cleared moving in together with Shauna. “Shacking up together,” Willie had corrected them, before he and Deo and Eoghan flew back to Ireland or London or Australia.

“Christ,” Harry grunts, lifting one end of a long, rectangular box while Niall lifts the other. Harry imagines that he can hear Niall’s knee being mashed to bits by his leg bones, and he almost drops the box because he starts gagging. “What’s in here, anyway?”

“Drum kit,” Niall pants. “Guitars are next, should be lighter.”

“What do you need all this stuff for, anyway?” Harry asks idly. He’s chipped a nail on the cardboard box and he pauses to hold the tiny bleeding cut to his tattered Rolling Stones t-shirt, his coat flapping against his knees. It’s unseasonably cold in LA, or maybe it just feels that way to Harry.

Niall comes over to examine Harry’s hand. His hands are warm even in the graying twilight, and he smells amazing. Like cologne and the spicy wings he must’ve eaten for dinner and a little like apples, somehow. Niall clucks his tongue like a mother hen. “Such a klutz.” Harry lets Niall turn his hand and examine his palm like he’s about to do a fortune-telling. Instead, Niall traces the scar in the middle of Harry’s palm with the tip of his index finger. “Do you want to do something tonight?” Niall asks.

“Not particularly,” Harry answers honestly, so Niall orders them two large pizzas, one cheese, one vegetarian supreme, and they stretch their legs out toward each other from opposite ends of Harry’s plush sofa. Niall picks up the remote and selects a game for them to watch.

Harry tries to catch a mushroom with his tongue before it lands with a splat into the greasy cardboard box open on his lap. “Do you think this is what Mick Jagger does on his days off?” Harry asks. “Chills out on the sofa with the telly on?”

“Probably,” Niall shrugs. “Can you imagine if he decided to sue you?”

“Why would he sue me?” Harry asks, rearranging the bell pepper bits on his pizza so that he gets a piece with every bite.

“I dunno,” Niall shrugs. “But imagine he did. There goes the hair and maybe your mouth and a ton of the shite you do on stage.”

Harry objects mildly, “You like the shite I do on stage. Half of it’s with you, anyway.”

Niall snorts. “Our poor man’s excuse for dancing.”

“I think you’re an excellent dancer.” Harry nudges Niall’s calf with his socked toes. “Tell me I’m an excellent dancer.”

“You’re a horrible dancer and you know it,” Niall says without taking his eyes off the telly. “Trade you a piece of my pizza for a piece of yours.”

“I knew you’d come around to the vegetables eventually,” Harry says, exchanging slices of pizza with Niall.

 

***

 

Niall’s easy to live with as long as you don’t mind if he follows you around putting the cap back on the toothpaste, sticking the bread back into the cupboard, and rearranging your placement of the throw pillows on the sofa. In other words, Harry is very hard to live with, but Niall is an absolute treasure. At least, that’s what Niall says when Harry asks him to please stop picking up the paintings and sculptures Harry has scattered up and down his hallways and leaning against his walls.

“Then let me hang them up,” Niall says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the big, empty white wall above the sofa. “It’s like a museum in here. The least we can do is hang your art.”

“I haven’t decided where I want to put it yet,” Harry replies, pulling his beanie off his head. He’s just come back from that meeting with Harvey Weinstein, who wasn’t too happy to hear Harry say no, although he did kind of leave the door open for soundtrack work. Maybe. Harry’s regretting going out at all. He starts toeing off his boots to deposit beside the door, like he knows Niall wants him to.

Niall folds his arms back over his chest, his eyes roving over the bare walls. “Still,” he says. “Should decide, y’know.”

He’s neat and only loud when the match isn’t going the way he wants and when he talks, which is often, but Niall’s voice is like Harry’s latest favorite song. He starts to feel like a person with diabetes about their insulin, like he needs regular infusions of that song to stay alive.

Niall has the guest room just across the hall from Harry’s, which is comforting whenever Harry’s up at half-three with nothing to do. He thinks he’d like to see Niall’s face, but it feels too invasive to open the door while he’s sleeping and defenseless, and Harry doesn’t want to know if Niall locks it at night anyway, so he doesn’t try.

“You should come out with me sometime,” Harry says, rubbing his cheek. It stings a little from him unpeeling it off the kitchen table, where he’d fallen asleep after his run. “I could use the company.”

“Uh, neither of us need to be out ‘n’ about at half-four unless you want to die,” Niall replies, setting his bowl and spoon next to the box of Fruit Loops on the table beside Harry. Niall turns to fetch the milk so Harry snags the bowl and dumps a load of Fruit Loops in. Niall turns, sees him, rolls his eyes and goes to grab another bowl and spoon from the hutch.

Harry likes his kitchen, even if he doesn’t spend enough time in it. He’s got these fancy stainless steel appliances and dark wood floors that look so rich and deep against his faded white cabinets. He should cook more, he thinks. “I’m making dinner tonight,” he decides.

“I can pour my own cereal,” Niall says dryly, shoving a huge spoonful into his mouth.

Harry scratches his hairline. “I guess we could use a few groceries.”

Niall only agrees to come with Harry when Harry tells him about the home-brewed beers that his organic grocer sells, and it’s only with a fierce look in his eye, like Niall’s going to drink an entire case of beer just so that he can say with absolute certainty that Irish beer is better.

“You exhaust me,” Harry comments, pulling Niall’s newsboy cap over his own head. Maybe if he annoys Niall enough he won’t notice.

“That’s my hat,” Niall says, sliding his arms into Harry’s favorite knee-length coat.

“Fair,” Harry sighs, going to fetch his sheepskin one from the closet in the guest room. Niall’s room. He hasn’t been in since he came in to supervise Niall unpacking, which was five minutes of Niall quickly and efficiently putting his things in the bureau drawers while Harry tried to snoop. “Do you think I should stop wearing this coat?” Harry asks. “Now that I’m a vegetarian?”

“I think the sheep’s already dead,” Niall answers, tucking his phone back into his pocket when Harry comes into the room.

“Who was that?” Harry asks. “Um, I mean, sorry, we can go. Let’s go.”

Niall waits until they’re pulling their seatbelts over their chests in the car to answer. “It wasn’t Melly,” he says. “In case you were wondering.”

“Ah,” Harry answers, biting his lip hard. He focuses on turning the key in the ignition, backing the car out of the garage, getting them out of his gated neighborhood. He’s just about convinced himself that he’s let the topic go when Niall reaches out to turn the radio up and Harry blurts, “How is Melly, is she alright? The modeling stuff going well?”

Secretly, he’s been wondering when he would wake up and find Niall packing his bags for the next flight to Australia. It’s not something he likes to think about. Once he even woke up thinking that Niall left without saying goodbye, and then he did try his door. Niall left it unlocked. When Harry pushed it open, he saw Niall fast asleep, his mouth open, his socked feet kicked out the bottom of the duvet.

“She’s…” Niall starts, and stops. “We broke up.”

Harry’s head whips around. He takes his foot off the brake in surprise and they start creeping out into the middle of a busy intersection. Niall grabs the emergency brake and Harry lets out a surprised little squawk as the car grinds to a halt, his foot accidentally jamming down on the gas when he goes for the brake. The car moans pitifully.

“Okay,” Harry says. “New roommate rule: no news while I’m driving.”

Niall just laughs, and if it’s to the melody of “Out of the Woods,” then he wouldn’t admit it.

Funnily enough, it’s not cooking dinner with Niall that makes Harry panic, or even washing the dishes together afterwards, their knuckles bumping into each other in the soapy water while they scrubbed the pot and baking pan clean. Instead, it’s the dish towels. Harry stumbles out of bed and into the loo for a piss, like always, and then he goes to make himself an espresso.

He dribbles a bit of water out of the machine and grabs a dish towel to clean it up, and it’s one from Niall’s house, with a green checkerboard pattern. It looks better in Harry’s kitchen than his own stark white towels, and it’s a little stained from last night, when Harry spilled half a bottle of wine on himself over dinner and came away reeking of over-ripe grapes.

And it just. It looks like it belongs here in Harry’s house. He can hear Cal’s voice in his head, though, _Not much longer now_ , and his heart starts beating very, very fast. He’s on autopilot when he goes to his room, pulls on a pair of black jeans and a Calvin Klein sweatshirt, shoves his feet into a pair of suede boots. He shoves his wallet into his back pocket, grabs his keys from the dish Niall set out on the counter, and goes to Niall’s room.

Niall’s not awake yet, so Harry perches on the little bench in front of the window to wait for him to wake up. Niall wakes up slowly, with a grunt that stretches out into a groan when he arches his back like a cat, his toes curling. He pushes his hair back from his face with a little breath and feels around the nightstand for his phone.

“Niall,” says Harry.

“For fuck’s sake!” Niall all but shrieks, kicking his legs wildly so that his back is pressed to the headboard. “What the fuck! Oh, fucking hell, Harry. Were you watching me sleep?”

“Yes,” says Harry seriously. He’s afraid to move his face, Niall’s sleep-sounds caught in an endless loop in his head.

Niall throws the covers off and strides toward the loo in just his pants. “Suppose I should ask why,” he mumbles, squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush. He shoves the brush into his mouth and starts scrubbing around, his eyes focused on himself in the mirror.

Harry comes to lean against the doorframe. It’s been so long since he’s seen the freckles at the top of Niall’s shoulders that he’s half-forgotten what they look like. He’s forgotten that they go around his back, too. He wants to draw the lines between them like constellations. He wants to run his fingers down the middle of Niall’s spine. Harry folds his hands self-consciously behind his back. “We’re going on a road trip.”

“Uh-huh,” Niall says through a mouthful of foam. He bends over the sink to spit, the muscles in his back flexing with the movement, and Harry casts his eyes up at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he tells the crown molding. “C’mon, why not?”

“Uh, I have friends here that I’m supposed to have lunch with today,” Niall answers patiently, washing his face. Harry chances a glance down and sees the last of Niall’s vertebrae disappearing under the waistband of his boxers and he starts reciting prayers to himself. “Maybe after next week? We can do like a weekend or something in Aspen, make Shauna happy.”

A week. That’s such a long time. Cal’s voice won’t stop echoing in Harry’s head. Harry licks his lips. “Okay, but like. Please, Niall?”

Niall pulls the towel off the ring attached to the wall Harry’s leaned against, and he stands upright, crossing his fingers behind his back. “Why is this so important to you?” he asks, when he’s done drying his face.

There are so many things Harry could say. There’s one, in particular, he should’ve said years ago, but it gets lodged in his throat before he can even begin to get it out. “It just is,” he says softly. “Please, Niall. Please?”

“Well, I mean, I have to get ready,” Niall sighs.

Harry’s shaking his head before he even gets all the words out. “No time for that, just get dressed and let’s go.” He starts marching toward the kitchen to fetch that espresso he’s made. It must be cold by now, and he sighs a little internally.

“No time?” Niall repeats. Harry turns back to look at him.

“It’s not like Lou’s here to do your hair up for you,” Harry shrugs. “Besides, it looks good down. Put some trousers on, grab a coat, and I’ll be waiting in the garage.”

Harry gives Niall twenty minutes before he goes looking for him climbing out of the window or something to escape, but he’s downstairs in Harry’s chilly garage in fourteen minutes and fifteen seconds. Not that Harry’s counting. Niall’s got Harry’s own knee-length coat on and a pair of dark blue jeans with no holes in them. Harry hums approvingly. “Ready?” he asks, handing Niall his extra motorcycle helmet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m serious,” Harry tells Niall seriously. He cracks a smile. “C’mon, babe. Just a little further now.”

Grumbling, Niall accepts the helmet in Harry’s hand and pulls it down over his head. Harry swings one leg over the bike and Niall follows suit dutifully, his arms looping around Harry’s waist. Harry uses the clicker to close the garage door, leaves the clicker in the mailbox, and then they’re off. Nothing but open road in front of them.

 


	2. part ii

Niall stretches his arms over his head with a groan. Harry tries to sip at his watermelon tea and watch him without Niall noticing. He’s a little upset that the picnic table they’re sat at blocks his view of anything lower than Niall’s ribs, to be honest. Niall wipes his mouth with a cheap paper napkin and wads it up, tossing it onto his ketchup-stained plate with a satisfied little sigh.

“Stop drinking that,” Niall says, shuffling around to fish something out of his back pocket. “Or we’re going to have to stop every ten minutes so you can pee. Worse than Roche when she was pregnant with Alaia.” Harry moves Niall’s plate out of the way so he can spread out the map they picked up at their first stop at a gas station ten miles outside of Los Angeles.

“My diet is high in liquids, Niall,” Harry comments idly, holding down his end of the map from the sea breeze. They’ve got this little corner of the Santa Monica pier to themselves, and although the waves that crash into the pier and spray them with sea salt are a little cold, and the breeze is a little brisk, Harry’s still basking in it.

Niall mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath, and Harry grins. “Can’t believe we had to buy an actual map,” Niall changes the subject. “Thought this being 2016, we were beyond that.”

“I like it,” Harry opines.

“That’s because you don’t have to read it,” Niall laughs, running his fingers down the paper roads. “This was a good idea, I mean,” he adds, when Harry just smiles. Harry smiles wider.

“So, where to next?” Harry asks, chewing on his straw. He knows it drives Niall up the wall, so he makes a conscious effort to chew slowly, unnoticeably.

Niall starts biting at a little bit of dry skin on his lip, and Harry reaches up and touches his mouth before he can rethink it. He draws his hand away like he’s just done something unconscionable, but Niall stops chewing himself to bits. “Well, if we want to get back without taking I-10,” Niall starts.

“Get back?” Harry repeats. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, go home?” Niall asks, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?” He studies Harry’s face for a moment. “Oh, geez. You don’t want to go back. Damn it all. I should’ve known. Oh, God. I didn’t even bring my passport,” Niall starts talking to himself.

Harry bites his lip. “Nialler.”

At the sound of his nickname, Niall looks up. He looks a little panicked, the way Harry would expect him to be, if he hadn’t thought he and Niall were on the same page. Harry swallows hard. “Just. I don’t know. What if this is the last chance we get to go on a trip like this? Just piss off and do whatever we want. Like, come March – ”

“If the band starts up again, you mean,” Niall says, his eyes steady on Harry. Unflinching.

Harry just nods.

“Can I ask you something?” Niall says. “It’s gonna sound mean, so you don’t have to say yes.”

Harry shakes his head, then says, “Yeah, sure.”

“The thing about you, Haz, is that what’s out of sight, ‘s out of mind.”

Harry closes his eyes. “That’s not a question,” he whispers.

“I guess I just…” Niall sighs, then Harry feels Niall’s fingertips tentatively on his forearm. Niall plucks up his courage and wraps his hand around Harry’s forearm, over the mermaid, so that Harry can feel the callouses on his fingertips against his skin. “I guess I just want to know, like,” Niall says softly. “I dunno. That you won’t forget about us when you’re off doing your own thing.”

“What do you mean?” Harry whispers.

Niall’s voice is just as soft as Harry’s. “We both know you don’t want to come back,” he says.

“I don’t know that,” Harry says, opening his eyes. “I haven’t made up my mind, I don’t know that.”

Niall searches Harry’s face, and then he lets out a little laugh. “God, I – you really don’t, do you? I’ve been so angry with you and you don’t even know what you want to do, Christ. Christ,” Niall rubs his palms over his face.

Harry slides his fingers along the narrow slats between the long picnic table top boards. “I’m trying,” he offers weakly. “I’m figuring it out.”

“Yeah?” Niall checks. “How’s that going?”

“Well,” Harry starts, then stops. He chances a look at Niall’s face. “I don’t want to go home just yet.”

Niall nods slowly. “Okay. Uh, alright then.” He looks down at the map on the tabletop like he’s forgotten it’s there. “Could go south, I suppose. Or north. Only two options we’ve got. ‘Course with you in charge of a road trip we end up at an ocean,” he mutters, so Harry kicks his shin under the table.

“Hush, now. We haven’t been to Mexico in ages, could work on your Spanish.”

“Did you pack your passport?” Niall asks doubtfully. Harry’s forced to shake his head. “North it is, then.”

A thought hits Harry hard. “Oh!” He tries to grab the map and orient it to himself, but it’s pretty well flattened to the table by the wind, so he ends up just tearing it an inch or so down the middle. Not that it matters, they won’t need that bit. “We should take the PCH!”

“The what?” Niall asks, looking down at the map.

“It’s, uh, route one, I think. Locals call it the PCH, Pacific Coast Highway. They say it’s one of the most beautiful road trips you can take in America.”

“‘They’ wouldn’t happen to be Jeff and Glenne, would it?” Niall asks, his tone a bit dry.

Harry huffs a little. “Well? How about it?”

“Why not?” Niall agrees, which is all Harry needs to hear. They’ve done more with less.

 

***

 

Niall gives Harry’s hip an anxious squeeze when the first of the raindrops start hitting their visors. Harry waits until the road is saturated with several inches of standing water to pull the bike into the closest parking lot. The parking lot’s attached to a little surf shop called Neptune’s Net, so Harry and Niall bundle themselves into the diner. Niall’s teeth chatter from the cold, his coat – Harry’s coat, actually – sodden. Niall strips it off and drapes it over his arm while they wait to be seated.

“Your lips are blue,” he tells Harry with a breathless laugh, wrapping his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

Harry leans into his warmth. “I c-can’t believe it’s not snowing,” he says. “It’s cold enough it should be snowing, right?”

“Technically,” the hostess cuts in, a couple of menus clutched in her hand. “But the air’s too wet here at the coast.” She raises an eyebrow at them. “I can tell you’re not locals.”

“Too right,” Niall agrees easily. If she recognizes them, she doesn’t give it away, just leads them to a table. She’s kind enough not to comment on them dripping water all over the floor, although maybe they’re used to that, this close to the beach. Harry can imagine it in the summertime, full of the smell of sunscreen and sizzling cod on the hob, sunburnt families and travelers paused halfway between here and there.

In the off season, though, it has tinsel draped over every entryway and a fairly pitiful artificial Christmas tree in the corner. Harry’s reminded of the homemade ornaments Anne still hangs from their tree at home, particularly his and Gemma’s toilet paper angels. They look absolutely terrible now, but it’s sweet, kind of like this place. Broken in. Homey.

Harry combs his fingers through his hair and airs out his collar. “We should get waterproof jackets,” he thinks aloud.

“They don’t have anything but ale,” Niall says, flipping through the menu for a third time just to be sure. “Downright embarrassin’, ‘s what that is.”

“The bar up the road has a better selection,” their waiter tells them. He’s snuck up on Harry, who jumps so high he bumps his knee on the underside of the table. He winces and hopes the bloke hasn’t noticed. It’s awkward enough to have done it, it’s only more awkward when someone comments on it.

Niall gets interested immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a biker bar, can be rough sometimes,” he shrugs. “Is that your bike out front?” Harry nods eagerly. The waiter, whose nametag reads Marcus, lets out a low whistle. “Nice bike,” he says. “What is it, a Harley sportster? Vintage?”

“With some odds and ends,” Harry adds, nodding along.

“Custom,” Marcus whistles again. “Nice.” He gives a little shake of his head. “Sorry, alright. What can I get you gentlemen?”

“Uh, tea, please. Wait, d’you have hot tea?” Marcus’s lips twitch, but he nods. “And the crab,” Harry adds. When he first moved to California and started going around with Jeff, it was the only kind of fish he could stomach. Everything else tasted too, well, fishy. But it’s healthy and vegetarian – or pescetarian, whatever – and it sounds good.

Niall closes his menu. “I’ll have a tea as well and the surf ‘n’ turf, and directions to that bar.” Marcus takes up their menus and leaves with the promise to return shortly. Niall leans back in his seat, his posture slumped. It takes Harry a moment to recognize it. Relaxed. It’s like some essential tension has gone out of him since he realized Harry wasn’t desperate to go solo. “Asking for tea in an American restaurant, that’s the most English thing I’ve seen you do in ages.”

“It’s not like I’ve forgotten,” Harry rolls his eyes. “‘S not like I’m not still me.”

“No, I know,” Niall agrees. “You’re the most you I’ve ever seen you.”

Harry sniffs and shakes out his napkin, spreading it over his lap. “I don’t know what you mean by that, so I’m taking it as a compliment.”

“By all means,” Niall laughs, his blue eyes crinkling up.

Niall checks the league standings while they wait for their food to arrive, steaming tea bleeding color back into Niall’s cheeks and the tip of his nose and bringing back the feeling to Harry’s hands. Even though Niall swears up and down he hasn’t got a vested interest in the standings, it doesn’t stop him from grumbling under his breath about which players have been traded between teams.

“The real question is,” Harry cuts in, when it seems like Niall’s entirely forgotten he’s there, “is whose shorts are the best?”

Niall rolls his eyes so hard Harry’s a little surprised his soul doesn’t just leave his body. “I can’t believe you. Like you don’t know just as much about football as I do.”

Harry just shrugs. He and Niall used to watch a lot of matches together, he remembers. On earlier tours with the shoddy little TV bolted to the wall of the bus. They’d have to fight Zayn and Louis and Liam for it, arguing that games streamed live, whereas they could watch their superhero movies anytime. They lost those arguments regularly – it’s hard not to lose when it’s Louis one’s up against – so they used to squeeze in together on Harry’s vanilla-scented bunk and watch the match with their heads bent together over Niall’s tiny phone screen.

“I like confusing them,” he finally says. “The interviewers, I mean. Their faces get all - ” he does his best impression – “like, I don’t know, we’re desperate to be there.”

Niall taps his index finger nail against the tabletop. “We are, though, kinda,” he says softly. “We’re there for promo.”

“No, I know, I just,” Harry bites his lip. “They ask for too much, sometimes.”

“Okay,” Niall agrees. “Alright.”

Marcus delivers their meals and Harry sets about peeling his snow crab. He’s a little clumsy with it, but he’s too embarrassed to admit he’s used to it coming pre-peeled at most restaurants he goes to. Niall only watches him suffer for about fifteen minutes before he gives in.

“I should’ve vined that,” Niall comments, dragging Harry’s plate over to himself and tugging the crab crackers out of Harry’s hand. “Your fight with a snow crab would get, what, half a million hits? Just cos it’s you.”

Harry laughs, stealing a chip off of Niall’s plate. “Maybe. That’s what I like best about the motorcycle, though, you know? Except for the wet clothes,” Harry adds dryly, motioning to his still-damp shirt. “Like, with the helmet on, you’re unrecognizable.”

“Not in white,” Niall points out, “not in short sleeves.” Harry looks down at his sodden white shirt, and, oh. Right.

He can see the dark lines of his tattoos swirling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his soaking wet jumper drying on the seatback behind him. He’s half-forgotten what some of these tattoos even mean, he got them so impulsively. Just handed Ed Sheeran the tattoo gun and said, “Go to town!” and that was that. He doesn’t regret them, just. He wishes he had a reason for them.

“Can’t believe you got that tattooed on you,” Niall snorts, his voice soft, when he touches Harry’s wrist. Harry looks at the thin little letters of the 99p.

“I like this one,” Harry defends himself mildly. “Reminds me of you.” He’d been sat with Zayn and wanted a new tattoo, and it had just seemed the most natural choice, this little inside joke he and Niall had over something less expensive than a postcard or a tube of chapstick. That’s, like. Asked to give a one-word summary of his relationship with Niall, that’s what Harry would say: 99p.

Niall’s eyes are very bright when Harry looks up. “I’m glad you don’t regret it, then.”

Marcus gives them directions to the bar up the street and an umbrella that a customer came in with and forgot to take out, so Niall leaves him a hefty tip. The streets are still almost overrun with water and the rain keeps coming down, so Harry keeps close to Niall on the kerb.

“Not bad,” Niall says when they step into the bar, looking around. It’s practically a ringing endorsement from him considering it’s not a pub, or in Ireland, and Harry has to agree. It’s just chintzy enough with neon beer adverts on two walls and another wall dedicated to rugby jerseys, and there are multicolored fairylights strung up behind the bar. He and Niall sit down at a little round table with mismatched chairs on the opposite side from what looks like a deck, or maybe a stage. A jukebox in the corner plays classic rock.

While Harry examines the mixed drink menu, Niall unfolds the map he kept protected inside his shirt on the ride. “So far, I think we’ve traveled, like, sixty miles,” Niall thinks aloud, his fingers tracing the path from LA to Santa Monica to wherever they are now, somewhere up along Route 1 near Topanga State Park.

“You know, at this rate,” Harry muses, “we’re not going to finish this trip for at least a week.” Maybe more, if the rain keeps coming, and Harry can keep finding things for them to do. Keep stopping every ten minutes for a pee break and to see what Niall thought of the last ten minutes of the ride. And then it’s back to LA for him, and Niall goes back to London. And then it’s practically March.

“Yeah,” Niall shrugs, interrupting Harry’s internal monologue. “‘S not that bad.”

“Really?” Harry asks, starting to smile. “Not even with my driving?”

“I mean, I have to lean into the turns too,” Niall points out. Harry laughs out loud.

Niall drinks slowly when he’s not in any rush to hit a club and get out before he gets trapped inside by paps and fans, so Harry’s good and properly sodding drunk by the time the bar starts to fill up and evening gives way to night. The main lights kick off, leaving just the neon lights and the fairylights and, flicking on, the lights on the stage on the other end of the bar.

“Oh, Christ,” Niall realizes. “Karaoke.”

“Karaoke!” Harry cheers, smiling at Niall. Harry has his head propped up on his fist and he’s a little afraid to move, because he thinks he might fall out of this chair that didn’t feel quite so tall when he sat down in it. “Let’s never go home,” Harry half-yells to Niall, straining to be heard over the buzz of people talking and the music and the karaoke singer’s poor cover of “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

Niall reaches over and rakes Harry’s hair to the side for him, moving it out of his face. He thumbs over Harry’s cheek before he pulls his hand away, and Harry leans into it, Niall’s touch warm and familiar. “Would get tired,” Niall says, and even though his voice is soft Harry hears it loud and clear. He wonders if Niall would get tired of him, or of the road, or if he thinks Harry would get tired of him, or what. He’s too tongue-tied and happily drunk to ask Niall to clarify, just tries to memorize the faint press of Niall’s thumbprint on his cheekbone.

“Ready for another round?” Niall asks. Harry nods agreeably, so Niall pushes himself up with his hands flat on the tabletop and goes to get them another round of local beer. It’d been too watery and hops-tasting before, but now it tastes quite good.

That’s what Robin told Harry when Harry was maybe fourteen or fifteen and beer started making a regular appearance at his friends’ parties. If you drink enough of anything, it’ll start to taste good. He feels like he’s drunk a little too much of the punch, to be honest, and he thinks about stepping outside to clear his head and maybe call Gemma to ask her to make sense of himself for him, but she’s probably busy, and he’s finally dry and warm.

Niall returns with those big beer mugs full of ale. “I feel like a Viking whenever we have these,” Harry comments. “Shame they don’t have them in the UK.”

“They’d be too dangerous,” Niall says, just like Harry knew he would. “Besides, you’d be the rangiest little Viking ever. You’d be Hiccup,” he snorts.

Harry scowls. “Then you’re Astrid.”

Niall thinks on it for a moment. He breaks out smiling. “Hey, that’s nice. Thanks, Haz.”

“Didn’t mean to be,” Harry huffs, but Niall’s cheeks are so pink, and his eyes are so blue. Harry just wants to press his face against Niall’s, not even necessarily in a kiss, just to feel him.

Onstage, the song ends, and the karaoke singer walks off. Harry’s not really paying attention until he hears Niall’s name, and then Niall’s standing up and walking toward the stage. “You didn’t,” Harry gasps. “You didn’t!”

Niall’s grinning like – well, like the Cheshire cat when he takes his spot behind the microphone. “This one’s for my mate in the back,” he says, “the Rolling Stone.” A song kicks on and Niall steps from foot to foot in front of the mic, a little nervous in front of such a small crowd, but who wouldn’t be, until the letters start lighting up onscreen for him.

When Zayn left, in those first few rehearsals after when they were all practicing their new lines, there were no denying the gaping hole in their sound. Liam always had a sick falsetto but he’d only done Zayn’s soaring bit on “You and I” a handful of times, and none of them even wanted to think about “Don’t Forget Where You Belong.”

And surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly at all, it had been Niall who had stepped up to fill in so many of those missing parts. They’d all had to move around to adjust for closing in on that empty space, and they’d filled it in, in the end, but. Harry can still remember it, actually, looking up at one of those shows out of the eye of the storm, but still rocked by it, and hearing Niall belt out Zayn’s solo on “No Control” like he was born for it.

Zayn said Harry was the born pop star, but he never mentioned that maybe Niall was their born rock star. Or musician, or something. It leaks out of him sometimes like sunshine through every crack in the door, whether you’re ready to wake up or not, Harry thinks.

Niall leans in and starts in on the song, and it’s like when Harry’s practicing guitar sometimes, how he’ll stroke a perfect B minor and time vibrates, like he’s syncing himself back to the universe’s time again. It’s just a cheesy song out of the 80s, but Niall sings it like he believes it, and when he turns away from the mic for a second to smile at the drunken woman cheering behind him, he and Harry start rhythmically clapping at the same time. The rest of the bar picks it up until Harry can’t hear the sound of his own heart over the audience and Niall’s voice, stronger than he’s ever heard it, and more familiar.

Niall sings “I was living to run and running to live / Never worried about paying or even how much I owed,” so Harry closes his eyes and holds on to the edge of the table for support. Niall comes to the final chorus and Harry opens his eyes to find that Niall has closed his, the way he always does when he’s listening as hard as he can to his in-ears, and he sings “Well, I’m older now and still running / against the wind.” The whole room full of people sings along so loud that Harry’s a little surprised the bar is still standing when they’re done. Niall takes a step back from the mic, gives a little smile, and steps down. That simple. That easy.

He takes his seat across from Harry again, a grin on his face. The spotlight put a little gleam of sweat on his forehead and he looks flushed and happy and so very alive. Harry doesn’t have the words for how fond he is of Niall. For how much he loves him. So instead of saying anything at all, he just stumbles out of his seat and throws himself at Niall, who catches him with gentle, capable hands.

“Sorry,” Harry mutters into his neck. Even he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Niall comforts him, patting Harry’s back. “Me too.”

 

***

 

Harry settles into a restive, fitful sleep after a dinner of complimentary hotel peanuts and a bottle of water, per Niall’s warning that he didn’t want to deal with a hungover Harry tomorrow. He keeps waking up and going back to sleep thinking that he’s been asleep for ages.

The fourth time this happens, he sits up with a sigh and throws his legs over the side of the bed. Maybe he’ll go for a little wander, get acquainted with the motel he and Niall took a cab to from the bar last night. It’s not an especially nice place, with its papery sheets and vinyl shower curtain, but it reminds Harry of the first few hotels he and the boys stayed in.

They used to rotate roommates out on the X-Factor tour, and even into the Up All Night tour, depending who fell asleep where. Usually, though, it’d be X-Factor house roommates Niall and Liam in one room, Louis to himself, and Zayn and Harry to another. Towards the end of the night, Harry would look round and find Zayn attached to his side, so it’d become their thing.

He can still remember Zayn’s voice, soft and hoarse from the fags he’d only just begun to smoke, mumbling to Harry about the family he’d left behind. Harry’s not quite sure why Zayn picked him, but he liked that he had. He liked just about everything about those days, Harry thinks. Every day was like a rocketship launch, and he was one of the lucky few onboard. It doesn’t get much better than that.

“Where you goin’?” Niall asks, his voice raspy. He’s such a chatty drunk, Harry thinks fondly.

He smooths his hand over Niall’s forehead and shushes him. “Just for a walk. Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll come with you,” Niall sighs, shifting a little under the blankets like he really might drag himself out of bed at four o’clock in the morning to wander blankly around the streets of this little town with Harry. He would do it, too, Harry knows.

Harry rolls over onto his back and shuffles until his arm is pressed against Niall’s. “Never mind,” he murmurs. He listens to Niall fall back asleep, his body going limp and lax against the sheets when he’s gone under again. Harry concentrates on counting his breaths and before he knows it, light pours through the cheap motel curtains. He’s propped up on his elbows by the time he hears a key jiggling in the lock, and then Niall’s shouldering the door open with his key in his mouth, a carrier of coffee in one hand and a bag of donuts in the other. Harry’s stomach rumbles so loudly it’s a wonder the upstairs neighbors didn’t hear it.

Niall throws the white paper bag of food at Harry, who only just avoids getting hit in the face with it, and sets the coffee on the dinky faux-wood desk beside the door. He’s not wearing a coat, and he looks cold, his cheeks and the tip of his nose flushed pink.

“You’re finally awake! Thought you were going to sleep all day,” he comments, spitting the key out and setting it on the desk. He carries the coffee over to the bed and Harry takes it from him so Niall can throw himself down so that he’s laying on his side next to Harry.

“It’s like eight o’clock in the morning,” Harry complains, peeking inside the bag. Donuts, he knew he could smell them, and kolaches and a couple of bear claws. He groans. “You’re the best. You have the best face and you’re the best.”

Niall fidgets with a loose thread on the rough motel comforter. “It’s seven o’clock,” he just says, accepting the bag Harry hands him when he’s selected a bear claw.

“What are you doing up so early?” Harry asks, his mouth full of soft warm dough, and oh, he’s missed this. Low calorie gluten-free bread just does not taste the same.

“Some of us actually sleep at night,” Niall rolls his eyes a bit, his cheeks still a little warm. “What do you want to do today?” He rolls to grab their map off the nightstand and unfolds it over the bed. Harry pushes his back up against the headboard so that he’s less in the way.

Harry hums. “Ooh, we’re headed toward some nature reserves. Nice.”

“Wonder what the weather’s gonna be like,” Niall muses, flicking the TV on. He switches it to the weather channel and Harry studies the portly weatherman’s swoopy hair. It’s probably thinning out a little, which is why he’s got it coiffed up like that.

He’s so busy thinking about how to handle his own receding hairline that he misses what Niall says, and he turns to him, blinking confusedly. Niall reaches over and thumbs away some of the sugary residue at the corner of Harry’s mouth. He pops his thumb into his mouth to lick it clean, and Harry swallows, reaching for another donut to have something to do.

“We should go camping!” Harry realizes just a couple of minutes later. He sprays a mouthful of crumbs and Niall cringes, unflinching. “No, really,” he swallows hard. “We’ll do it proper, not like that time for This is Us.”

“What are you talking about,” Niall says dryly. “That was a proper documentary, Styles.”

Harry snorts. “C’mon, Nialler. We can even take pictures and send ‘em to Leemo.”

Niall scowls darkly, and Harry knows he’s got him. “That prat never let us live it down,” Niall grumbles. He and Harry probably would’ve had to have slept out in the open without Liam’s help last time. Somehow he’s convinced they’d have died without his help.

Harry goes to the loo and washes his face before they leave. He’s surprised when he looks up and sees his own reflection in the mirror. “I could be my own father,” he remembers whining to his mother on Christmas holiday. He could be his own grandfather now, he thinks, the hangover making his eyes red, the cheap overhead lights graying his skin.

Niall tosses Harry his coat when he comes out of the loo, and they just leave the key at the clerk’s desk in the dingy office of the motel before they set off. Harry’s black card had been the one they used; he could probably buy this entire place on his line of credit, and he rubs the back of his neck a little self-consciously, like Niall might’ve heard what he thought.

He jumps a little in surprise when Niall loops his arm around Harry’s waist, his phone balanced in his other hand, the directions back to Harry’s motorcycle pulled up on his map app. “Alri’?” he asks, giving the soft round of Harry’s hip a little squeeze.

Harry thinks of the thousands of miles of open road in front of them, all the things they have yet to do, and he nods. Niall just squeezes his hip again.

The miles fly by beneath their wheels. They zoom over the narrow roads carved into the sides of the Sierra Nevada like threading a needle, the slate gray ocean to their left, waves breaking at the foot of the mountains, rocky hills to their right. The land is harsh and rugged, reduced to shades of brown and gold, like something carved out of a history book or a sepia tone photograph.

They stop for a piss break after a few hours of hard riding, Niall giving his best opera interpretation of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” while Harry pees for what feels like forever. Honestly, he should’ve been counting the seconds or something so he could tell Jeff’s herbalist about it.

“Can kinda see what those lads were on about,” Niall stops yodeling, his hands on his narrow hips. Harry’s coat is a little ragged now, mud-stained in places and he thinks that’s a beer spot on the the left side, permanently water damaged. Niall looks like some kind of 80s pop-punk rock hero with his soft hair ruffled by the ocean breeze, and Harry blinks and laughs, zipping his trousers back up.

“We should stop and take a picture by the tree,” Harry says. “Y’know, the one from the album cover.”

“Pretty sure it’s dead now,” Niall points out. “Besides, I don’t think we’re really near that park.”

Harry does some stretches while Niall pokes around the brush at the side of the road, examining the rocks. He’s been on a geology kick lately, Harry thinks he remembers. Ever since he read about scientists discovering water on Mars. Niall checks their map while Harry checks his phone. He’s got at least a dozen emails about scheduling writing sessions with different people, and there’s some stuff in here from YSL about modeling for them, and Sony still needs to know whether Harry wants to re-up his contract. Harry just shoves his phone back into his pocket.

“Okay,” Harry windmills his arm. He plucks his helmet off the seat. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Niall mutters, straddling the bike. “We’re almost there, I think.”

“We’ll need supplies,” Harry thinks aloud.

Niall just shrugs, putting his hands on Harry’s hips. “Figure it out at the next stop.”

They pass through the beach towns of Ventura and Santa Barbara without stopping, like if they do someone might recognize them. At least that’s what Harry’s thinking of when Niall redoubles his grip on Harry’s waist at every red light. Harry feels less exposed and vulnerable on the bike with his helmet on than in a car where a single flash can illuminate the interior, but he reckons he can see Niall’s point, too. He speeds. Not too much, but just a little. Niall’s knobbly knees dig into Harry’s thighs in what he thinks might be gratitude. He tries very hard not to memorize the way Niall’s legs feel clenching around him.

The bike runs low on gas so Harry pulls into a gas station in a tiny town called El Capitan to refuel. Niall wanders into the convenience store to stretch his legs and buy them a couple of bottles of water, so Harry pulls his helmet off his head and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. He needs to shower. The cold nips at his chin and his cheeks where he’s especially flushed, and he wonders if he’s a little sick. Mostly he thinks it’s because he’s spent the last few hours with Niall pressed up against his back like his own personal electric heating blanket.

He hears the click of the camera shutter before he sees the little girl taking the photo. She must be twelve, maybe thirteen, with braces on her teeth and those fur-lined boots on her feet that Gemma says only kids and uni students wear. Harry takes half a step toward her and all the blood rushes out of her face, so he stays put. People have fainted around him before, it’s kind of scary, to say the least. Her mum finishes refilling their tank and then their minivan is pulling out of the lot before Harry has a chance to say a word.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Niall says, when he gets back. “What the hell happened to you?” He cradles both bottles of water in one hand and feels Harry’s forehead.

“Just got snapped,” he sighs. “Picture’s probably already posted.” He scrubs at his cheek with the heel of his hand, trying to sneak a look at the rest of the parking lot. It’s just a little asphalt lot in the middle of the wilderness with an array of gas pumps in front of a tiny shop selling overpriced soda and chips. The only other people here are an older bloke in a blue vest loading ice into an outdoor freezer and the clerk from the shop smoking a fag on her break.

Niall puts his arm around Harry’s shoulders and bends their heads together. “The lady from the shop told me there’s a park just up the road. Los Padres, think it’s called. Sound good?”

Harry nods, so they load up again for the short trek inland, to the national park. There’s a little gear shop just up the road from it, so both Harry and Niall get parkas to wear. They’re sturdy things, not the puffy kind Harry had been expecting that don’t do anything against wind chill. Harry’s has a hiking belt that cinches tight around his waist. Niall goes for a more military-looking one.

“We still need a tent and sleeping bags and a heater,” Niall says, checking the list he made up in the parking lot outside while Harry tried to share the last of his motel peanuts with a squirrel.

“We don’t need a heater, we’ll just build a bonfire.”

“Okay, Mr. Couldn’t-Build-a-Tent. We need a heater.” Niall finds one with a little gas canister; the whole thing is about the size of his forearm.

Harry says, “This outdoorsy thing is easier than I thought it was. Maybe we should do this full-time, like. Like that athlete who lives in his van, what’s-his-name. With a beard, and that hunting knife.”

“Daniel Norris,” Niall supplies. “S’pose you could. I dunno, Haz. Reckon you’d go mad on your own.”

“Well, you’d be with me,” Harry says thoughtlessly.

Niall looks away from the selection of tents this little dusty-floored shop offers to set his eyes on Harry. Harry’s mouth goes dry. “Yeah,” Niall says finally. “I would be.” They tote their purchases up to the counter, where the teenaged boy asks to take their picture before he checks them out.

The boy gives them an abashed smile. “My girlfriend’s a big fan,” he explains shyly.

“Sure,” Niall says, surprising Harry. He wraps his arm around Harry’s waist, so Harry puts his arm around Niall’s neck. He knows they look more than a little rough after a couple of days without a shower or a change of clothes, but Niall still smells faintly of his cologne and the toothpaste he picked up that very first day of the trip, and a little like coffee. His hair’s a mess, ruffled from the wind and still matted to his head in places from the helmet, but he looks good. He always looks good, really. Harry’s pressing a kiss to the side of his head when the clerk’s flash goes off, and he pulls away with a shy smile. Niall just pinches his side and moves away, shoving all of their purchases into the dark green backpack they bought.

It’s another short drive to the little wooden cabin of an office on the outskirts of the national park, where the nature guide, a doubtful-looking man in his forties in incredibly good shape, tries to convince Niall and Harry to stay in a cabin instead of in the woods.

“I don’t get why we didn’t,” Harry says. “He had a really convincing argument.”

“They just wanted us to spend more money,” Niall responds, pulling his helmet back on over his head. He leaves the visor open. Harry picks up his own helmet and puts it on for the final little trip to their campsite. “Besides, he probably doesn’t want to have to come save us from our own stupidity.”

“He was fit,” Harry agrees.

Niall groans. “That’s not what I said.”

“He was fit,” Harry repeats anyway, tying his hair up, out of his face. “I would let him suck me off if I wasn’t totally loyal to you, of course.”

“Let him suck you off?” Niall repeats, spluttering out a laugh. “What, like it’s such an honor? To boldly go where so many have gone before,” Niall uses his announcer voice.

Harry shrugs his old sheepskin coat off and shoves it through the mouth of the Goodwill donations bin on the side of the road. “You wouldn’t know,” he says without thinking, and Niall stops, his laugh choking off. “Er, I mean,” Harry starts.

“It’s okay,” Niall says. “Just because I wanted you, and you said no. Doesn’t mean we can’t, like. Can’t talk about it or anything.”

It would be so, so easy to just say it now, Harry thinks. The words are there. He almost knows them, he thinks. But he’s looking at Niall, who’s gamely wearing a hiking jacket and tattered trainers, his hair a right mess, and they still have miles to go on this trip. Harry’s afraid to lose them. He can’t make the words come out. “You’ve got a little,” Harry plucks a tiny twig from Niall’s hair. “There.”

“Thanks,” Niall says. “Alright, let’s go check this off your road trip bucket list. I’m warnin’ ya now, if we die, Bobby Horan’s going to kill you.”

“I’d be more frightened of Liam and Louis,” Harry says, helping Niall shoulder their bag for that last little drive to the campground. “You’re like their little brother.”

“So are you,” Niall points out, clipping the backpack’s straps together over his waist. He looks so handsome and capable, like he proper is an outdoorsman of some kind. It drives Harry mad sometimes, how easy he makes everything look.

“It’s not the same, though,” Harry says, without really explaining. Niall doesn’t ask for one, so maybe he knows. They take the bike up to the top of a path and park it to the side, where it should be fine for one night. Ideally. It’s already gotten mud caked on the fender from the rain and scratches on the side from that time Harry and Niall leaned a little too far over and kicked up loose stones on the side of the road on the side of a mountain, but it still looks good. It still looks like Harry’s.

They hike for about a mile, Harry reckons, based on the fact it takes them half an hour and that he’s wheezing by the end of it, a familiar weight at the bottom of his lungs. Asthma, maybe, or his allergies. It makes him sweat even in the cold and he shivers when he finally stops moving, putting his hands on his hips as he surveys the campground. It’s just a flat little camp on a level spot about halfway up a mountain, no more than a few thousand feet elevated, with dry scrubby grass underfoot and a gradual incline giving way to snowy peaks. It’s beautiful.

“Lovely,” Niall says succinctly. “Let’s get to work.”

“Can’t we take a minute to savor the beauty?” Harry asks, whining for the sake of it.

Niall grunts, “No. Besides, I don’t want you finding somewhere to curl up for a nap and leaving me to do all the work before night falls and we gotta do it in the dark.”

“You could take a nap with me,” Harry points out, even though he knows Niall won’t. No matter how boring it was backstage, or how many times they’d done a show at the same venue, Niall still flitted about watching everything happen. Keeping interested in it.

To be fair, Harry hasn’t really had a chance to go on many camping trips since he joined the band. He’s doing the best he can. Still, it takes Harry and Niall about an hour to erect their little four-person tent, which sounded plenty big at the store but looking at it now it’s about the size of one of Niall’s closets. Not to mention Harry’s starting to feel like maybe he needs to take a poop, but they didn’t pack any toilet paper.

Harry says as much to Niall, who just snorts. A minute later, he’s rolling all over the forest floor laughing while Harry criticizes him for not caring more about his colon health.

“Christ,” Niall says, sitting upright. He’s smiling so hard that the corners of Harry’s lips are twitching in sympathy, and he can’t look away from him. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry says softly.

Niall looks up at Harry. “D’you really think so?” he asks thoughtfully, leaning back on his hands. His shirt’s open a little bit so Harry can see his chest and count his breaths. It’s slow, steady. Either because Niall’s counting them himself or because he really is just that relaxed about it, Harry doesn’t know.

“I wish I’d known you were mad at me,” Harry says reflexively. “I would’ve apologized.”

“Nah,” Niall says, leaning back with one arm bent beneath his head. Harry wants to slide his hand into the open side of Niall’s shirt and feel his heart beating beneath his palm. “Nothin’ to apologize for.”

“Actually,” Harry licks his lips. “There is.”

Niall looks at him with very blue, very familiar eyes. He’s going to be familiar for the rest of his life, Harry realizes. That’s what happens when you grow up with someone. You keep growing up together, till you grow old together, whether you were there for it or not. “No,” Niall says softly. “Let’s not, alright? Let’s just,” he closes his eyes and lets out a long breath, his eyelashes casting faint shadows down his cheeks.

Because Harry’s turning out to be something of a coward, he accepts the out. He stretches out beside Niall, not as close as he wants to be, but not too far away, either. When he looks over at Niall, Niall cracks one eye open, smiles softly, and sighs a little like he’s going back to sleep.

Because he can, because Niall’s kind enough to let him and because maybe he even kind of wants him to, Harry rolls over and presses his face to Niall’s chest. He smells a little ripe and a little too much like Harry himself, but he also smells like his own cologne and toothpaste and the open road. He smells like everything Harry’s ever wanted. Niall strokes his hand over Harry’s head once, so he just closes his eyes and breathes it in.

 

***

 

“Niall,” Harry starts.

Niall turns a little in his sleeping bag, the silvery fabric rustling. The tent shakes a little in the wind, and while it’s frigid out there with the wind chill, inside it’s so warm that Harry’s down to his t-shirt and pants. “No,” Niall says.

Harry sighs. “Niall,” he repeats.

“I said no,” Niall says into the fabric. At least, that’s what Harry thinks he says.

“It’s just – ”

“For Christ’s sakes,” Niall mutters. “I warned you!”

“And then you told me anyway! You should know better than to cave to me, Niall! Really it’s your own fault.”

Niall snorts. “It’s not my fault you’re afraid of a little ghost story.”

Harry pokes Niall hard in the side. Or maybe his bum, what he got was fleshier than he expected. “Anne Twist raised a good boy, Niall Horan. I don’t want to wake up and there be three people in here instead of two, or for someone to be standing with their back to me and only moving closer when they move away – I’m serious, Niall! It’s creepy!”

“Then go to sleep,” Niall says shortly. “Nothing bad can happen to you while you’re asleep.”

He goes quiet no matter how much Harry pokes and prods him, so Harry gives up, staring at the ceiling of the tent and thinking about Niall’s goatman story. Trying not to think about him, and failing utterly. He forces himself into a fitful doze, jerking awake every time the grass outside their tent brushes up against the flimsy fabric wall.

What feels like hours later, Niall unzips Harry’s sleeping bag and fits himself inside. “Wha?” Harry asks intelligently.

“My own stupid story,” Niall mutters. “Don’t make fun, go back to sleep.” He nudges Harry a bit, so Harry rolls onto his side. Niall fits himself along Harry’s back, his bony knees jutting into the backs of Harry’s. He tightens his arm around Harry’s waist and Harry tries his best not to push too much back into him, trying to get them touching from head to foot.

“Love you,” Harry says sleepily. Niall presses his hand against Harry’s chest, over his heart, pulling him even closer until he’s almost positive he can feel Niall’s heart beating against his back. He sleeps quite well, all things considered.

Harry wakes up with one thought on his mind: the loo. Gotta go to the loo. Of course, there’s not one around for miles, so he stumbles out of the tent and heads for the line of trees. It’s not actually that complicated, in the end. He knows what poison ivy looks like from walks around Robin’s garden, and a handful of leaves, while smellier than toilet paper, are really not that different. So Harry’s feeling quite proud of himself on his way back to camp. He can finally say that he’s taken a shit in the woods.

Maybe halfway back, he hears snuffling in the brush. Half-afraid that it’s a fan with an HD camera, because that would be his luck, Harry freezes. He turns slowly, trying to keep his face out of the lens, and.

Well, good news: it’s not a fan.

Bad news: it’s a bear.

“Oh, my God,” Harry whispers. He turns back around slowly, trying to figure out what to do. Then he realizes he’s turned his back to a bear, so he turns around to face it again. He starts walking backward toward camp, keeping his eyes trained on the bear in front of him. It’s not nearly as cute as it looks in pictures, with beady dark eyes and a muzzle Harry’s pretty sure is stained in blood. He takes three, four, five steps backward and then he bumps into something.

“Very funny,” Niall says. “Thanks for the goatman reenactment, really, I – ” Even though Harry’s not looking at him, he knows that all the color has just gone out of Niall’s face. He tightens his grip on Harry’s bicep. “Where the fuck did you find a bear?” Niall whispers tightly.

“This is not my fault,” Harry says, his voice straining to keep quiet. “What do we do?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Niall demands. He pulls Harry backwards so they start moving toward the tent again, like that’s going to offer them any protection, and the bear roars. It’s not like a lion’s roar, or a cougar, which Harry has seen in zoos. This is more like a huff. Like his mum saying, “Where do you think you’re going?” when she’s caught him trying to sneak out of the house.

It hits Harry like a ton of bricks, that conversation with Glenne standing in line for frozen yogurt more than a year ago now. Harry raises his arms over his head. “Shoo bear!”

“What the fuck,” Niall chokes out. The bear narrows its carnivorous little eyes. “This is insane.” He fumbles in his pocket for his pocket knife.

“Don’t you dare, Niall! It’s a defenseless animal!”

“Have you seen those teeth?” Niall demands, both of them forgetting to whisper. “It doesn’t look very defenseless to me!”

The bear roars again, sounding less like his mum than Paul when they’d all been out drinking much too late to sound any good the next day, and Harry throws his arms up again desperately. “Look big,” he tells Niall, which he recognizes is a challenge for two boyband members who are never going to crack six foot or two hundred pounds.

“Go along with it,” Harry urges him, raising his voice.

“This is just like the music video for ‘Midnight Memories,’” Niall observes, before he gives in and waves his arms over his head. He starts singing “Stayin’ Alive” mostly, Harry thinks, out of nerves, so Harry joins in. God knows, he’s nervous too.

The bear looks puzzled, and then it looks a little alarmed, like maybe the lad he’d been pacing has turned out to be quite a lot larger than he expected. “Get outta here! Go on, shoo!” Niall says, while Harry’s still desperately trying to remember the next verse. He just doubles back to the chorus again, chanting “Stayin’ alive, ooh ooh ooh ooh, stayin’ alive,” at the top of his lungs.

Finally the bear turns tail and runs, and Harry shouts after it, “Yeah, that’s what I thought!” Then he and Niall grab their things, pack up as quickly as possible, and get the hell out of dodge before the bear comes back. Probably without a fear of the Bee Gees.

 

***

 

“We almost died of a bear attack,” Harry tells the lady at the secondhand store he and Niall have stopped at after a long, long day on the road. When they finally pulled over just a few miles outside of Sacramento, Harry had almost fallen straight over, his arse was so numb. The woman is somewhere in her fifties or sixties, and she has the thickest pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose that Harry’s ever seen. She doesn’t seem too interested in him, so he’s been talking to her for almost half an hour.

“Please stop telling people that,” Niall groans, behind the changing room curtain. Harry abandons his latest victim for Niall, instead. “At least leave out the bit about ‘Stayin’ Alive’ from now on.”

“Are you kidding? That’s the best part!” Harry laughs. He wonders if he stares at the curtain long enough, Niall will feel it and show Harry what he’s wearing, or not wearing, as it were.

As for himself, Harry has discovered the wonders of cowboy hats, and now he’s never looking back.

“Whatever,” Niall says, pushing back the curtain with a bundle of clothes cradled in the crook of his arm. “Let’s just pay so we can check in to a hotel and go to dinner with – go to dinner,” Niall corrects himself lamely. In fact he’d turned to Harry in the middle of a roadside pee break to tell him that Lindsey Buckingham was interested in having them round for dinner, would Harry like to go?

If Harry hadn’t had the logistics of peeing at the same time as his brain almost whiting out, he would’ve punched Niall in the leg, or maybe hugged him so hard his ribs cracked. Either one, really.

After several days on the road – and without a shower – Harry grudgingly breaks road trip protocol and agrees to a four-star hotel. They can’t go round to a member of Fleetwood Mac smelling like exhaust and gasoline and sweat, after all.

The sound of the shower after so many hours with his helmet on, the road wheeling by under his tires, is so bizarre and strange that Harry scrubs himself clean in record time to yield up the shower to Niall next.

He lets out a wave of steam when he opens the bathroom door to find Niall lounging on one of the beds, his eyes glued to a match. He spares a look over at Harry, and his eyes linger. When he looks away it’s with a little blush climbing up his neck. Harry tries not to preen. He sits on the bed while Niall showers and thumbs through his phone, where he now has forty-eight unread emails and one hundred and seven texts. Why won’t the battery just die already?

Harry moves over to the mirror, finger-combing through his hair. The conditioner’s nice enough that the tangles just slide out, his hair sproinging up in those tight ringlets like he used to have, back in the early days of the band. He dresses while Niall’s still in the loo, in a pair of soft Levis and a soft green jumper. Resale shops are such a laugh. Harry might pass for one of the young lads out of his mum’s yearbooks.

His suede boots have seen better days but he still likes wearing them out until there’s holes in the soles and the laces hardly have any more eyelet to hold onto, although he doesn’t much get the chance. YSL sends him so much to wear, and Jeff says it’s good business to go above and beyond, wear them even when they’re not paying him. It’s. He likes it less than he remembers, last time he was home.

Niall opens the bathroom door just a few minutes later, when Harry’s still crouched down tying his shoelaces. He’s glad he’s already so close to the ground, because Niall looks – well. He’s wearing a pair of light gray cords and a jumper, three days’ worth of stubble on his jaw, and he doesn’t look like the kid Harry knew when they met, with crooked teeth and that unchanging laugh. He looks like Bobby. He looks proper grown up.

“You okay?” Niall asks, sliding his phone and his wallet into his pockets. He does that familiar pat-pat that he always has, checking that everything’s there. He shrugs his new all-weather coat on. “Ready?”

Harry nods dumbly and pulls his own coat on. He adds his new cowboy hat on top, and Niall looks him over with a disbelieving shake of his head. “I can’t believe you’re the one of us that’s won fashion awards.”

Harry follows him out of their hotel room, tripping over his feet a bit in his hurry to keep up. “Where are we meeting him, anyway?”

Niall shrugs. “At a vineyard, I think. Suppose we can take a cab?”

“You don’t think we’ll be recognized?”

Niall pulls the bill of his cap a little lower over his face. “Considering you look like you’ve walked off the set of Tombstone in that getup, I think we’ll be fine.”

Harry pulls up short. “I can’t believe you picked Tombstone over Brokeback Mountain.” He elbows Niall in the ribs. “You must really love me.”

“I really must,” Niall sighs, the back of his hand bumping into Harry’s. Harry links their fingers together, nervously glancing to the side to see what Niall will do. He just sighs a bit, his fingertips twitching against Harry’s fingers. He doesn’t let go.

The cab driver, a man with an extraordinary white beard like Santa Claus’s with twinkling blue eyes to match, doesn’t seem to recognize them. He does, however, ask how long they’ve been together. “Uh,” Niall says.

“I’m just happy that folks have won equal rights after all this time,” their driver says, his cheeks rosy. “My sister’s a lesbian, you know.”

“Uh, no,” Harry says, “we didn’t know that. Thank you.”

“So, what’s your story?” he asks, glancing into the rearview mirror at Niall and Harry, who still haven’t dropped their hands. It’s only when he looks down at them that he realizes Niall’s leg is pressed against his all the way up to his thigh. Maybe they’re just still in the practice of having to be squeezed onto the same too-small couch for interviews.

Niall scratches his head. “We, uh, met through work.”

“It was love at first sight,” Harry says, because Niall’s version is terrible and unromantic. “For him, that is. Took me a little longer to come around, but I got there in the end.”

The cabbie meets his eye in the rearview mirror. “Good on you, boys,” he says, and lets them finish the rest of the ride in silence.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Niall asks, when they’ve stepped onto the winding country road that leads into the winery where they’re having dinner with Lindsey-bleeding-Buckingham. Harry can just make out a golf cart coming to pick them up, kicking up a cloud of reddish mountain soil in its wake. The sun has already set, leaving the sky like something out of a painting, the look of a campfire burning out to velvety indigo. The first stars twinkle just overhead, and Harry wonders how many of them Niall can name.

“Beautiful,” Harry comments without thinking. This country, this state. The whole trip has been, really. Niall reaches out and reels him in by a fistful of his collar. Harry automatically falls into the hug, stooping ever so slightly so that Niall can hook his chin over Harry’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. Niall’s feels warm and bristly, and he smells like home.

Niall strokes his hand down Harry’s back, digging in a little with the heel of his hand at his lumbar vertebrae. They’re a little sore no matter what he tries, and he’s tried almost everything. A chiropractor. Acupuncture. Meditation. Apparently it’s just going to be a thing, like Niall’s bad knees. Harry lets out a soft groan of relief, pressing closer to him. He can feel Niall’s breathing pick up a bit, and he wants to say it, finally.

But the golf cart comes trundling over the gravelly path, the driver coming to a stop with a jaunty honk of the horn. Niall releases Harry and raises a hand in greeting, offering the driver a smile.

“Mr. Horan and Mr. Styles?” the driver, a perky-looking woman in her thirties, asks. Harry and Niall nod. “Well, hop aboard! Amador Foothill Winery couldn’t be more pleased to have you.”

“Please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” Niall mutters under his breath, making Harry bite his lip to keep from laughing. Niall taps the top of Harry’s foot with the toe of his shoe, a pleased smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

Maya, their driver, drops them at the doors to the winery, where they’re ushered past the usual array of wine-tasting rooms – a big open space with a bar with a huge selection of wines, dozens of small tables, and spit buckets a-plenty – to a back room with a dark wooden table that seats six, dimly lit with an array of candles, and Lindsey Buckingham and his wife. Even though he’s met Stevie Nicks – Stevie Nicks! – Niall still stops moving, his eyes boggling. He’s like that about guitarists, though. Harry slides his fingers back through Niall’s, gently propelling him forward.

Niall holds out his right hand, Harry still attached to his left. “Hi,” he laughs, his cheeks reddening. “‘S good to see you again.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry adds, untangling his hand with Niall’s to lean forward and shake Lindsey’s. He looks older than he does in pictures, but more real, too, his face softly lined like Harry’s granddad. His wife is positively beautiful, her face kind, especially when Niall’s too busy staring at Lindsey to look at her while she shakes his hand. “Harry Styles.”

Kristen smiles kindly at Harry. “We know.”

It’s still one of the most unnerving things a person can say. Especially when that person is a member of one of Harry’s favorite bands of all time.

He and Niall take two open seats side by side across from Lindsey and Kristen. The whole time they’re having dinner, Harry feels like he’s living inside a Fleetwood Mac album cover, like Stevie might be coming round with shawls for them to wear while Christine McVie helped them select their preferred bird of paradise to be photographed with. It’s a magical feeling, truth be told.

Niall warms up and becomes the life of the party, like he always does, after two glasses of wine. The wine is especially sharp and bitter, crisp like a bright red apple. Harry relaxes while Niall takes center stage, although Niall does it in such a way that he makes everyone feel special.

They talk shop, with Kristen the sharpest of the lot, because musicians can’t get together and not talk about music. “D’you remember that jam session we had with Eddie Vedder last time we saw you?” Niall asks, shaking his head slowly. “Legend.”

“Yeah, it was,” Lindsey agrees. He hums a few notes. “What was that song, the one – ”

“‘Off He Goes,’” Niall supplies. “That’s the one we did.”

“What a tune,” Lindsey sighs.

Harry listens to them talk, his head whipping around like a ping pong ball’s flying between them. He frowns. “Wait a second, where was I? What’s this tune?”

“It was backstage before the Seattle concert,” Niall answers patiently. “I think you were with Xander and Jeff and them.”

“I want to hear this song,” Harry declares. He sets his half-full wineglass on the table assertively, ignoring the fact that the wine’s just a bit too crisp to drink and that not one of them has brought an instrument. He can maybe hum in the background, or do the “Waterfall” rap, that’s sure to be useful. At some point in his life.

Kristen shakes her head. “A tune like that, only Vedder can do it.”

“Do you think that’s the mark of, like, the perfect song?” Niall asks. “Nobody can cover it as well as your original?”

“I don’t know,” Lindsey says doubtfully. “Johnny Cash’s cover of ‘Hurt’ was better than the original, I think.” He goes thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know, music, it’s all the same song, a lot of the time. I think great music is just someone singing taking something they couldn’t do better than the original and making it unique. Take ‘Man of the Hour,’ for one.”

“‘Man of the Hour’?” Niall repeats intently. Harry glances at him and realizes that both of them are leaned halfway over the table, their white plates smeared with the remains of lobster for Harry and steak for everyone else. He doesn’t even try to lean back and act cool.

Kristen nods, and Lindsey expands, “Right, that’s a Springsteen tune if ever I’ve heard one, but Eddie makes it his own. He plays it slow, instead of fast, and boom, it’s something totally new.”

“Wait, what?” Harry asks again. He’s feeling a little out of his depth, to be honest.

“Springsteen kind of, like, mentored Eddie, a bit, I think,” Niall explains hesitantly, looking to Lindsey and Kristen for confirmation. “He sorta said as much.”

“‘Father ruled by long division, young men they pretend / Old men comprehend,’” Lindsey sings almost absent-mindedly, his brow furrowed a little. “Oh, yeah.”

Niall seems to be grappling with this. “So, like, it’s not the story that’s different, it’s just the way you tell it. The details.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s all the same old story,” Lindsey shrugs. “All of our songs, they reference real stuff but the stuff that’s real is pretty universal, right? I mean,” he laughs, “what’s your favorite Mac song?”

Harry and Niall exchange a look, and Harry feels a peculiar weight settling in his chest. Not like his heart sinking, more like a bird coming home to roost. Something light and soft and deliberate. “‘You Make Loving Fun,’” he confesses, much like he confessed years ago, one night at Robin’s bungalow to a boy he only just met.

Niall had snorted. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not joking,” Harry defended himself mildly. He hadn’t felt the great pressure to prove himself to Niall like he did to Louis. Maybe because Louis was so much older where he and Niall were just a few months apart, or maybe because nothing about Niall seemed critical. He’d spent most of the days at Robin’s cabin strumming his guitar and cracking jokes.

Back then, he’d been the only one to have a solid connection with each of the others. Liam and Louis could hardly stand each other, and Harry and Liam had almost nothing to talk about. The only thing they could all agree on was that Niall was their favorite.

Probably nothing’s changed, Harry thinks, looking at him now. He’s got a candyfloss pink flush spread over his cheeks, his eyes very blue in the warm lighting, and his jumper clings to his chest and stomach.

Niall had laughed when Harry told him so, Harry remembers, thinking of Niall with that terrible bleach blond dye job and those skinny legs. “You’ve gotta be joking. Me, the favorite? Nah, that’s all you. The voters are goin’ ta love you.”

“No,” Harry insisted, shaking his head so that curls bounced around into his eyes. “You’re the special one.”

Maybe that’s why he felt like he could tell Niall anything, even from the start. “What’s wrong with Fleetwood Mac?” he’d asked, cracking one eye open to study Niall stretched out on the floor.

“Nothing, just,” Niall had snorted, “that’s my favorite song, too.”

Harry had started to smile. “Because, like, ‘Landslide’ is amazing, but ‘You Make Loving Fun’ is the one that makes you want to fall in love.”

“No,” Niall had responded, shaking his head. “‘You Make Loving Fun’ is the one that makes you want to be in love.”

For his part, Harry doesn’t remember falling.

“Not now,” they’d agreed, their heads tucked close together on the pillow in Niall’s tiny twin bed in his childhood room. “Later, when the band’s all set.”

“And we can write Fleetwood Mac songs of our own,” Harry had responded sleepily, his eyes at half-mast. “Someday, maybe. ‘Cept they won’t be Mac songs, I guess.”

“Someday, maybe,” Niall affirmed. “When we’re ready.”

Just, Niall had been ready a lot sooner than Harry. So much sooner he’s pretty sure he’s lost all chance.

Then Niall squeezes his knee under the table, and Harry knows he’s thinking of the same night. Not the one in Italy, where he’d made such a mess of things. The one before that, before the start of it all, really, when they were just Harry and Niall, not Harry Styles and Niall Horan from One Direction. Now they’re those people again, seems like. That, or Harry Styles and Niall Horan, formerly of One Direction. That’s not how Harry’s going to think of it. He hopes that’s not how Niall thinks of it, either.

“Funny choice, that song,” Lindsey says, rubbing his bare chin. Like Harry, he hasn’t got much in the way of facial hair. It makes Harry feel inordinately pleased. “Christie wrote it, after that spell of hers with, oh, what’s his name. Doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Simple little song. Nice choice, lads, though I would’ve preferred you chose one of mine,” he laughs. “Good song, for a couple like you.”

They should deny it, Harry knows. He doesn’t really want to. Beside him, Niall stays quiet, too. “Does it ever bother you?” Harry asks, because he’s wondered. “You know, those songs you wrote about Stevie, and then her being on stage with you every night, do those songs, have they kind of lost all meaning now?”

Lindsey shakes his head, and it’s Kristen who answers for him. “They never lose meaning. That’s the worst thing, really. To love someone so much and make each other better, but not happy.”

“I do love her;” Lindsey says, touching Kristen’s cheek lightly, intimately, “but she’s not the one I married.”

 

***

 

Harry can hear Niall breathing in the bed next to his, which is the worst thing. If he knew that Niall was asleep he might finally be able to pass out, too. Instead he lays awake and watches the ceiling fan whirl around and around until he convinces himself that it’s actually rotating backwards, which is an optical illusion Gemma showed him when he was seven and they were visiting their dad’s bachelor flat for the first time.

“Are you awake?” Harry whispers.

“Yeah, Haz,” Niall answers, his voice a little raspy from all the talking he’d done at dinner. That’s hours past now and all the wine’s left Harry’s body, but he doesn’t feel sleepy and a little muzzy-headed, like he’s in need of a run, as he usually would after a few drinks. He feels restless and twitchy, full of the need to do…something.

Harry licks his lips. “Just in case, like, I dunno. But just in case. You should know, uh. You make me happy.”

He hears Niall take a deep, deep breath through his nose. The covers rustle, the bed shifts, and and Niall’s weight settles across Harry’s hips. Harry can only see his silhouette in the dark. He could be any slim figure. But Harry knows it’s Niall. He’d know him by his smell, and the way his hair is sticking up slightly to the right from Niall running his hand through it, and the way Niall’s knee is ridged with a scar when harry runs his hands up to Niall’s thighs.

Niall’s hands tangle with Harry’s, their fingers clumsily and loosely slotting together.

“Niall,” Harry starts uncertainly. He’s not sure where to go from there. There’s so much stuff between them, so many years now, and. He’s a little afraid of what Niall might want to know. So, just Niall. Feels like enough, actually.

“You want me, right?” Niall asks.

Of all the questions Harry had imagined, this is the easiest one to answer. “Yes.”

Niall cradles Harry’s face between his palms and leans down. He kisses Harry proper for the first time in five years, for the first time since they sealed their pact that night in Bobby’s little house in Mullingar. It’s just the same as Harry remembers it. Minty and fresh and unapologetic. His tongue prods at Harry’s lips and he lets his mouth open. His knees spread easily for Niall to lie between.

Harry feels stretched open, flayed out. Raw and vulnerable and not entirely safe when he can’t see the freckles on the tops of Niall’s shoulders and the slope of his nose and the way his lips are going to go red and sore and swollen. “G’ us a sec,” Harry says, and Niall pulls back, his palms running soothingly over Harry’s bare stomach. “Can we turn on the lights?”

Niall brushes his thumb over Harry’s belly, between the butterfly and the laurels. He can imagine the puzzled look on Niall’s face. “I want to see you,” Harry admits. Niall’s hand goes still, and Harry tenses for him to pull away.

Niall laughs. “God, that’s so – you. You’re gonna want to film us goin’ at it, aren’t you?”

“Just for notes,” Harry smiles hard. “Constructive criticism.”

Huffing, Niall says, “For you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Harry agrees, finding Niall’s face in the dark. He presses the hollows of his palms against the apples of Niall’s cheeks, and the bridge of his nose fits quite neatly into the dimple in Niall’s chin. He presses a kiss to the underside of Niall’s jaw.

“I can feel you blushing,” Harry murmurs. Niall lets out a tiny little sound and rolls off of Harry to flick the bedside lamp on. His eyes are so blue. If Harry felt laid bare before, he feels totally transparent now. “Maybe we should turn them back off,” Harry suggests, swallowing.

Niall rolls his eyes. Harry pulls back the covers and Niall slides in beside him, his lithe body like Harry’s own personal furnace. Harry presses his cold toes to Niall’s calves and his fingers to Niall’s chest, feeling him shiver involuntarily. “Arsehole,” Niall mutters, holding Harry’s frigid hands to his breastbone.

This time, when he settles himself over Harry, Harry’s ready for it. The firm press of his weight on Harry’s hips and the little breaths he lets out between kisses like muffled laughter, and the itchy scratch of his stubble against Harry’s cheeks. Harry licks him without thinking about it, wondering what his beard would feel like on his tongue, and Niall suffers through it without comment. Lets Harry push his shirt up his ribs and feel the muscles of his back move as he stretches over Harry, sucking a hickey into his throat so big and dark Harry imagines astronauts are going to be able to see it from space, like a giant neon sign signifying the shape of Niall’s mouth on Harry’s skin.

Just. He really knows what he’s doing, and Harry’s feeling a little bit irrationally jealous of anyone who’s ever gotten Niall like this before he has. “Can I blow you?” he asks between kisses.

The pads of Niall’s fingers twitch against Harry’s skull, his hands buried in Harry’s hair. “No,” Niall answers. “I want to do you.” He presses one last quick kiss to Harry’s mouth and shuffles down his body, so that he’s fit between Harry’s legs. “‘S okay, right?”

“I don’t know, Niall,” Harry rolls his eyes dramatically, sliding his hands beneath his pillow so that he can watch Niall size him up like the chords to a song he’s yet to learn. “Is grass green? Is water wet?”

Niall pinches the soft inside of Harry’s thigh and he meeps, jumping so hard that he accidentally knees Niall in the shoulder. “Christ,” Niall just mutters, palming Harry’s knee. Harry thinks about Niall hitching Harry’s knees up around Niall’s narrow hips and he has to take a moment to compose himself so that he won’t come before Niall even touches him, the slow-moving bastard. God, Harry loves him.

Harry’s never been shy about nudity, especially not around Niall, who has maybe seen him naked on more occasions than Harry would advise, but he still lets out a satisfied little purr when Niall presses his face to the vee of Harry’s hips, his boxers lost somewhere in the tangle of blankets at the foot of the bed. The sheet slides down Niall’s shoulders another inch when he leans up, just using the tips of his fingers.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry whines.

“We’ve waited five years,” Niall says amusedly, “you can wait another five minutes.”

“I absolutely cannot.”

Niall starts to move away. “Well, then, by all means, suck yourself off,” and Harry hooks his ankle around Niall’s back and tries to hold him in place. “That’s what I thought,” Niall says smugly, and leans back down to take Harry into his mouth.

Harry clenches the pillow under his head so tight that he can almost hear his fingernails making tiny cuts into the fabric. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, his back arching off the bed. It’s over almost embarrassingly fast, and then Niall’s draped over Harry again, his hands faster and surer than Harry’s, pulling himself off before Harry gets the chance to and coming all over Harry’s stomach.

“You could’ve let me do that,” Harry huffs, exhaustion settling over him like a warm blanket. Niall tidies up with the corner of the sheet and kisses Harry’s mouth sloppily, his lips mostly on Harry’s chin.

Niall kisses the side of Harry’s head, his breath slowing against Harry’s cheek. “I’ll be giving the constructive criticism, thanks very much.”

Harry’s asleep before he can work up a response.

 

***

 

“For fuck’s sake, Harry, answer your fucking phone,” Niall wakes Harry up, almost slapping Harry in the face with it. Niall’s voice is low and gravelly, and he rolls over, his breath already evening out again. Harry fumbles to pick up the call. “Hello?”

“I think you’ve finally done it,” Shauna says. “The pics from the gas station and with Lindsey Buckingham, I think you’ve finally convinced everyone that it’s real.”

Harry sits up in bed, his stomach turning watery, unsteady. “Um.”

“So good job on thinking of a road trip to publicize your relationship,” Shauna says. “We’re right on track for the Brits and then the break-up in March. Email me sometime this week and let me know which announcement you want to go out, and my assistant will be in touch to discuss the details.”

Harry swallows hard. “Right, okay,” he mumbles. “Thanks.” Shauna clicks off, so Harry lets his hands drop to his lap. He’s got callouses from holding onto the handles of the motorcycle for hours at a time, and his fingernails are looking a little worse for the wear. He thinks there might still be soil from his and Niall’s camping trip stuck under them. Harry glances sideways at Niall, who’s facing away from him. He’s still wearing a soft white t-shirt and his boxers, and Harry has a pang of regret. He didn’t even get him naked.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry shuffles out of bed as quietly as possible. He perches on the edge of the desk chair and pulls the complimentary hotel stationery closer to himself, reaching for the pen attached to the room service menu. The faster he writes, the faster the words come, his neat block letters slurring together and shrinking to fit more on each page. It’s a song, Harry realizes, when he’s done.

He’s written so many of them now that it shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is, a bit. It’s been a while since he wrote a song like that. In one rush of emotion. Harry’s eyes linger on the final line of the song. Tell me what’s real, because I’m starting to lose my way.

“Talk to me about what’s real” might be a better line, but then it’s possibly too long. Harry scratches at the paper, trying to sketch out a melody. He hums the words under his breath like a mantra, like something from The Pilgrim’s Progress: if you say it enough times, then it loses all meaning.

Harry climbs back under the covers when he can’t think anymore about the best use of words in the chorus, the cotton a little rough from many washes. The bed smells like both himself and Niall, Niall’s cinnamon-y deodorant and the essential oil Harry dabs on the line of his wrist to boost his immune system. The bed smells a little like sex, too.

He’s still awake when Niall wakes up. He licks his chapped lips and blinks a few time, rolling off of his own arm. Niall feels around for his phone on the bedside table and checks the time, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, making his breath deep and even. Niall slides out of bed and pads to the loo, where he shuts the door. Harry hears water running a moment later.

By the time Niall’s out of the loo, Harry’s already got his clothes back on minus the underwear he couldn’t find in the mess of blankets on the floor. He zips their bag closed, raising his eyebrows at Niall. “Ready to go?”

“Breakfast before we head out?”

“We can stop somewhere on the way,” Harry suggests, and Niall nods, looking a little relieved. He comes to take the bag from Harry and Harry goes still, his heartbeat kicking up ten notches. He could – if he wanted – just lean in those last few inches and kiss him hello, good morning. Start this stomach-upsetting day right over. He doesn’t, so Harry watches him sling the bag over his shoulder, zipping his jacket up to his neck. He picks up the motorcycle helmets and passes Harry’s over. They leave the key on the bed and walk right out, into a crystal clear winter morning.

They stop a couple of hours later, headed back south, toward Los Angeles. Harry’s stomach has been rumbling for the past fifteen minutes so voraciously that he’s fairly certain Niall can feel it through his coat.

McDonald’s is never a safe bet but they’re usually guaranteed to get in and out quick. If anybody recognizes them, they don’t say anything. Harry and Niall take their purchases out, leaving the bike in the lot, and carry their steaming hot breakfasts across the street to a little park in the middle of nowhere, California.

They settle down on the banks of a little river, or what is more likely just a drainage creek, but the water is only just a bit gray, and it smells crisp and fresh, like snow. Maybe it’s runoff from the Cascades up north.

“So,” Harry starts nervously, pulling his sleeves over his hands a bit so that he can hold his hash brown without melting his fingerprints off. “It’s, uh, like six hours home? Or so?”

Niall nods, pulling the map out from under the collar of his shirt. He unfolds it partially, showing just the rest of their route. This poor map has seen far better days; there’s a beer ring mark from one of his and Niall’s stops, and a ketchup stain over part of the Sierra Nevadas from that first restaurant they stopped at, and Harry’s little tear along one of seams has only grown. Niall shows Harry the route and folds the map back up, tucking it away. He runs his palms over his cords over and over again.

“Hey, uh,” Harry starts. Niall looks round at him, his face unreadable, like it always is when he feels a little vulnerable. “You know the way better than I do. Why don’t you drive back? I’ll show you how.”

“That doesn’t sound even remotely safe,” Niall comments doubtfully.

“It’ll be fun,” Harry insists. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Niall stops chewing and stares at his food for a moment. “Not just worried about meself.”

Harry blinks. “The bike is a classic,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Harry,” Niall starts. He bites his lip.

“It doesn’t change anything, does it?” Harry asks softly. “You’re still – we’re still breaking up in March. You’re going back to London, I’ll stay here. Maybe see each other a couple of times a year, if we’re at the same event.”

Niall doesn’t deny it. "We might stay together, though. We might regroup."

“And if we don't? What then? I spend the hiatus writing, you spend the break with the LIC. How's that fair?"  
“I, uh,” Niall clears his throat. “I’m going on tour in a few months, Harry.”

Harry feels all the blood drain out of his face. “You’re what?”

“The past few months, when I was so angry with you for going solo. I thought, like, why not, right? If you could do it, I could too. So I started talking to a few of my mates…”

White noise fills Harry’s ears. He doesn’t really want to hear the rest. He drops his food and stands up, taking a few steps along the creek, away from Niall. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and he thinks he might be about to be sick.

Niall puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder and Harry jerks away. Suddenly it’s everything he has not to start bawling. “You were – you were giving me all that shit about not coming back from hiatus, and you’re the one that doesn’t want to come back? I thought you, of all of us – I thought you – ”

“I am,” Niall insists. “It’s not like us, it’s not permanent. I just,” Niall’s voice goes very small. “I didn’t want to get left behind, you know?”

Harry takes a few steps back from him, stumbling a little when the heel of his boot catches on a rock. He presses the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. “I can’t – I don’t – ” Harry makes himself take a deep, shuddering breath. Thinks of it like finding his center of balance in a more challenging yoga pose. Holds onto it for dear life. “I need to go, I need to – here,” he hands Niall the keys to the bike, “you take this, I’ll – I’ll catch a flight back, or something.”

“That’s it?” Niall demands. “You’re just going to run away?”

“I can’t look at you when you’re breaking my heart,” Harry says, closing his eyes. “I love you too much.”

Niall’s quiet for a moment. He doesn’t move closer or farther away; all Harry can hear is his breathing. “That’s not fair,” he finally says, lowly. “You take these – ” he tosses the keys back to Harry – “and I’ll take a plane back. I don’t know how to drive that thing, anyway.”

Harry was going to teach him. Harry was – well, there were a lot of things he’d started to think of, for a moment there. “Do you want a ride to the airport?”

Niall snorts. “Can handle that meself, thanks.”

“You’re still mad at me!” Harry kind of explodes without meaning to. He didn’t know he was going to say it until the words were already coming out, and then it was too late to stop them. “Why are you still angry with me?”

“Because we had ages, Harry! I gave you ages to take it back! You had ages and all you had to do was say ‘Sorry, turns out I do still want you,’ instead of fucking me about over whether or not you even wanted me that way. If you ever did. All I wanted was to be able to tell Jonathon Ross ‘yes’ or ‘no’ next time we he asked who in the band had someone, not ‘I’m not sure, maybe someday.’”

“I’m sorry!” Harry says. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry. What do you want me to say? I can’t get that time back, Niall.”

Niall’s quiet, almost resigned when he says, “I know that, Haz.”

“Then why are you still angry with me?” Harry asks. It sounds like a plea.

“Because I still can’t tell if you want me,” Niall says quietly. “Or if you just want something to hold onto.”

Harry’s mouth moves soundlessly. He can see on Niall’s face that the confirmation is written all over his own. Harry doesn’t really know, which is maybe the worst part.

Niall breathes hard, his chest heaving. He takes a deep breath, trying to slow it down. “Okay. Alright. Right, well. I’ve got a plane to catch, I guess.”

“Let me book it for you, at least,” Harry says, feeling like the lowest, scummiest thing on earth. Worse than the paps that dragged Niall to the ground that one time. Worse than the friends that’ve sold personal stories and childhood photographs of him for a few bucks.

“It’s okay,” Niall comforts him. God, Harry doesn’t deserve him. “I can book me own flight. You should go, y’know – I know what you’re like driving at night.”

“Okay,” Harry says weakly. “Alright, then. Bye, I guess. Bye, Niall.”

Niall raises his hand in a wave, and that’s the image Harry takes with him when he starts in on the long, long drive home.

He doesn’t make half a dozen long detours like he half-expected he would. He’s almost desperate to get back to LA at this point, where all he has to worry about is wearing the shirts YSL sends him, avoiding writing sessions with at least a dozen industry picks of the minute, and getting papped making it to happy hour at Jamba Juice.

Harry does make one stop, though. He and Niall blazed through Big Sur just the day before in order to make it to Sacramento in time for dinner, but they’d stopped just long enough to share a prepackaged cup of pretzels and hummus and for a single picture on the side of the road.

The wind blew Niall’s hair all up and over and forced Harry to throw his own hair up into a bun, and they look like such kids in the photo. Niall had his back to the camera with his elbows leaned on the concrete railing, their only barrier from open water.

Harry’d had to take the picture himself, so it’s not a long distance shot the way it’s meant to be when the scenery’s really the point. The waves crash in the distance over their shoulders, China and Japan somewhere on the horizon. Both places they’ve been to. Harry’s smiling at the camera, the line of his arm pressed to Niall’s, but Niall’s facing Harry, and he’s looking at Harry the way – well, the way Harry normally looks at Niall.

Harry deletes every single unread email and text message in his inbox and sets the photo as his lock screen, so that he has to look at it every time he turns on FitBit for a run or goes to check for directions anywhere. Just so that he’ll remember. So that he’ll know. And maybe learn. It hurts more, and less, than he expects it to.

He spends more time than he means to with his elbows on his ledge the way Niall had had them, not really thinking about anything at all.

So it’s late by the time Harry finally pulls into the driveway of his house in LA. It looks huge and dark and empty, but there should be cheese leftover in the fridge and those buttery Ritz crackers in his pantry, and he can take a shower in the comfort of his own home. It’s enough.

Harry puts the key in the lock and pushes the door open, his helmet dangling from his hand. Niall turns to look at him from his spot on the sofa, his legs outstretched on the ottoman. He mutes the TV, the glaring light from the screen obscuring his face into one big familiar blur.

The helmet drops from Harry’s hand. Niall stands up and faces him slowly, an ice pack taped to his knee. Flying’s always been hard on him. “Took you long enough,” Niall says, his voice a little hoarse. He licks his lips like his mouth has gone dry. “Thought you might’ve got lost.”

Harry’s already striding across the foyer to wrap his arms around him. “I didn’t think you’d be here,” he confesses into Niall’s neck. His voice sounds a little wet. “I didn’t think I’d see you again until the Brits, and then,” he hiccups.

“Told you,” Niall says, his arms firm and secure around Harry’s back. His words come out muffled in Harry’s coat. “Not leaving you.”

Harry eats the last word from Niall’s mouth, feels like, Niall still trying to talk while Harry kisses him desperately. “For Shauna, right?” he asks, breathing hard. Niall’s lips are already reddening and a flush is blooming over his cheeks. Condensation from the ice pack soaks the denim of Harry’s jeans. “So that we’re convincing. Just for a bit.”

“Right,” Niall nods. He pushes Harry down onto his own couch and climbs on top of him. “Christ, you reek,” he says, sliding his hands up under Harry’s shirt.

Harry snorts out a laugh. “Hey! I had to drive all the way back.”

“And you decided to stop for the world’s smelliest meal? What is this,” he takes a deep whiff off Harry’s shirt, his coat pushed down his shoulders, “bell peppers and garlic hummus?”

Harry strokes his hand through Niall’s hair, which is soft and fluffy and only a little dry. “There was an organic roadside vegetable stand, Niall. I’m only human.”

“You,” Niall laughs, kissing the hinge of Harry’s jaw with only a hint of teeth. Harry tilts his head back, trying not to let it seem like he’d be purring. Niall gets him out of his coat almost without Harry realizing it, the button on his jeans undone and his fly unzipped before his eyes flutter open.

“Very good with those hands,” he comments, squeezing Niall’s bum. Even though he’s done it about a thousand times over the years, Niall jumps a bit, his flush spreading further up his neck. Harry pulls down the stretched-out collar of his t-shirt to spectate. “Did I do that?” he asks, pressing his thumb into a bruise on the hollow of Niall’s throat. It looks painful, it’s such a dark shade of purple, and right there at the base of his throat, like he’d been showing off.

Niall says dryly, “Didn’t do it to meself,” and sticks his hand down Harry’s jeans.

“Mm,” Harry hums, every single muscle going slack with Niall’s calloused hand firm and confident and just tight enough. Niall’s wearing a soft pair of joggers cut off at the knee, so it’s easy for Harry to slip his hand under Niall’s waistband. He rakes his fingernails lightly over Niall’s happy trail so that Niall gasps, his hand going still. “A lovebite here,” he muses.

“I’ll – ” Niall takes a sharp breath – “make a note of it,” he finishes weakly. Harry pulls Niall up a bit to get a better angle on him, Niall’s face in his neck. His cheek is pressed against the side of Niall’s head and he can smell Niall’s aftershave and his own body wash, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, imagining Niall in his steamy shower with his big sturdy hands on himself.

Harry takes a shaky breath. “Really won’t need a reminder,” he mumbles, and Niall laughs, low and raspy in his chest. Harry has his hand up the back of Niall’s shirt, stroking his fingers down the middle of his spine, when he comes. It feels so slow, like time is moving in slow motion, like honey, and Harry doesn’t ever want it to end. Niall shoots off in his hand mid-groan, and Harry slips his hand out of Niall’s shorts, looking for something to wipe it on.

Niall grimaces and wipes his hand on Harry’s shirt, so Harry just does the same. It’s already dirty with the bit of lunch he’d spilled down his front, anyway. “Filthy boy,” Niall says fondly, smoothing Harry’s hair back from his face.

“I vote we go for round two,” Harry suggests, struggling to keep his eyes open, “just after a quick nap.”

“I’m not shagging you again until you take a shower,” Niall says, pushing himself up so that he’s sat astride Harry’s legs. He pats Harry’s knee. “You really do stink.”

Harry closes his eyes. “You love it,” he all but whispers, his eyes slipping shut.

“Yeah, well,” Niall says, patting Harry’s knee slowly now, like he’s assuring himself that Harry’s really there, “even so.”

 

***

 

“I’m pretty sure that we can get somewhere to deliver,” Harry says. He watches Niall move about his bedroom, collecting the bits of clothing Harry had so laboriously taken off him last night. Does he not know how hard it is to get those calf-high socks off without looking like a total dweeb? Because Harry knows.

Niall just hums, it rumbling deep and low in his chest. He pulls his t-shirt over his head and ruffles his hair with his hand.

“Seriously,” Harry presses. “Pizza. That sandwich shop, Billy Bob’s.”

“Jimmy John’s,” Niall corrects him with a smile. He looks away from himself in the mirror over Harry’s chest of drawers, pulling his newsboy cap on over his sex-rumpled hair. “We haven’t been out of your house in days, Haz, I’m starting to get cabin fever.”

Harry huffs. “So you’d rather be eating fake Mexican food than shagging me? I feel so betrayed,” he pulls the covers over his head. It hasn’t felt like days. It’s felt like ages that he’s gotten to wake up to Niall next to him in bed, ideally still naked from the last go, his eyelids twitching just the tiniest bit as he dreams. Spending the day in bed, getting off whenever the thought occurs, watching hours of shit telly and eating whatever they found in the back of Harry’s pantry.

Has it really been days? Harry wonders. He hasn’t been out much, either, turned his phone off and put his laptop out of sight. The world hasn’t looked any different on those four a.m. runs. That reminds Harry, he needs to get in touch with Mark or someone out here, actually; he’d seen himself in the mirror a few days ago after a shower and been shocked at how big his tattoos looked on him, like he’d shrunken under them, or they were more of him than he knew.

“C’mon,” Niall urges him, something soft and light landing on Harry’s feet. A shirt, probably. Something heavier joins it, his jeans. Harry sits up and pushes the covers off his face before Niall starts lobbing boots at him. “Shauna called,” Niall adds quietly, turning back to himself in the mirror, fiddling with cuffs of his shirt.

Harry swallows hard, imagining the paps with their camera lenses pressed to the windows of the restaurant Niall had woken him up this morning talking about. Their breaths leaving fans of condensation on the glass so that Harry felt like an animal in the zoo, watching Niall smile at him across the table and wondering if his head was angled like that so that the cameras would pick it up or if he really was interested in Harry’s story about Cindy Crawford’s dog.

He licks his lips. “Right,” he says dully, sliding out of bed. He starts mindlessly pulling on the clothes heaped up at the foot of the bed, grabbing a tattered jumper from the top drawer of his bureau to put on over the top of his silky collared shirt.

Harry looks up to find Niall watching him. “Ready?” he tries a smile. It feels a little feeble, but otherwise it’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s the deal, right? Harry can’t have the days in bed bit without the bit spent getting papped. So they’ll go and do this and then they can come home and go back to normal. It’s fine.

 

***

 

Xander calls Harry on the new phone his assistant brought over, thinking that he’d lost his old one since he hadn’t bothered to return any of her messages. The moment the little apple icon fades away and his home screen settles into view, Harry’s phone lights up with dozens of unread emails, texts, and voicemails. Harry picks up without thinking; Xander might be in jail and need his help, or something. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Xander says, sounding surprised. “You picked up, I – I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

Harry pinches his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. He can hear the water running in the en suite from where he’s leaned against the counter in the kitchen, waiting for his bread to toast while he sips on a mug of tea. Xander’s voice fills his mouth with the phantom tang of fruity drinks and the smell of that fake cigarette smoke. It feels a million miles away from Harry’s kitchen, and much too close. “Yeah, I – what’s on, Xander?”

“Was thinking, it’s your birthday in a few days. Do you have any plans?”

“Uh,” Harry says, turning to check the calendar in his pantry. The calendar, he remembers a beat too late, is from 2013. Harry pulls the phone away from his ear to check the date and what the hell, it’s already the end of January? He’d been planning his birthday party last year for ages by now, was fussing over decorations and the invite list, making sure not to let anyone feel left out. This year he’d almost forgotten he even had a birthday coming up.

Twenty-two. Jeez. That sounds like a proper grown-up. It feels light years away from the early days, when he’d been the baby of the band, the youngest contestant in the X-Factor house. Funny, now, how he doesn’t feel so young. He’s a little surprised he’s not old, actually.

Xander says, “Because I was thinking, if you’re free, you should come up. We can go to the park and see a show.”

“Go to a few antique shops?” Harry asks, glancing around his sparsely furnished house. He’s just so picky, it takes him ages to fill a room. And he’d had to let the giant stuffed bears go, they were proper nice decorations, he’d thought.

“If we must,” Xander sighs. “Just, you’re one of my best mates, alright? I don’t want to, like, lose that over a stupid mistake.”

“No, yeah, me neither. Uh, yeah, that sounds good. I’ll have my assistant book it and send you the details.”

Xander says warmly, “Good. Later, then.”

“Who was that?” Niall asks, toweling his shaggy blond hair. They’re both overdue for a trim, Harry thinks, and adds it to his list of things to do later, when he couldn’t be at home watching the muscles in Niall’s bare chest shift. A trail of love bites disappears under the waistband of his jeans, and Harry smiles contentedly at his work in the full light pouring in from the window above the sink.

“Xander,” Harry answers, turning to pour Niall his cup of tea. He adds just a spoonful of honey and mixes it thoroughly, the steam smelling herb-y and sweet. “He was asking about birthday stuff, might go up for that. What?” Harry asks, surprised to find Niall’s expression stony.

Niall’s jaw works. “Nothing, just. So you’re going to spend your birthday with Xander?”

“Uh, I mean,” Harry shrugs. “Not like I had any other plans.”

“Oh, right,” Niall says. “Okay.” He drums his fingers on the countertop, his nails still neatly trimmed, just the pads of his fingers hitting the granite surface.

Harry can’t think of what he’s done wrong. “You can come,” he adds. “I mean, obviously I want you there.”

“Really?” Niall snorts, his tone sharp. “No, that’s alright. You two have fun. I need to see about rehearsal spaces for the lads and I, this is as good a time as any to do it. Just make sure you use a condom, right?”

Harry flounders. “Just use – what? I’m, Niall,” he says. “I’m not fucking Xander.”

Niall rolls his eyes at Harry, and it’s not soft and fond like it usually is. “Does Xander know that?”

“He – I already, like, he knows, Niall, I said I didn’t – ”

Niall frowns, and instantly Harry knows he’s said the wrong thing. “Oh, so you’ve talked about it?”

“Not like – not like that, just. Can’t you just trust me?”

“It’s not about trust, this is just pretend, right? You can fuck whoever you want.”

Harry’s eyes sting, and his nose starts running like his allergies are kicking into overdrive. It’s not a good feeling. “It’s ‘whomever,’” he snaps, and Niall scoffs, turning away. “Where are you going?”

“Sorry, didn’t realize stuff was like that was something we talked about, maybe we’ll talk when you get back from New York,” Niall calls. Harry hears him shut a door and he has a horrible, sneaking suspicion that it’s the door to the guest room.

He manages to sip at his tea and nibble on his toast for a few minutes, and then he goes to his little library, where all his journals are. He pulls out the latest volume and starts putting letters on the page, just trying to exorcise this awful feeling out of his system. After a while – it feels like forever, but maybe it’s just ten minutes or so – he hears a car horn honk just outside his house and the front door open and shut. He doesn’t go out and wave goodbye or anything, even though he desperately wants to. He doesn’t want to give Niall the satisfaction.

When Niall doesn’t come home within a few hours, Harry pokes his head into the guest room. Niall’s case is gone, as well as all his things. ‘Cept the stuff he left in Harry’s loo, probably more concerned with getting out than grabbing his terrible razor from the counter and his cologne bottle. He even left a handful of guitar picks on the bedside table, not that he’s been playing much, just a few chords here and there on the acoustic Harry keeps nearby for songwriting.

The next few days give Harry far more time alone without anything to do than he’s accustomed to, and since he can only go running in the middle of the night, he has to find other ways to busy himself. He’s had a hammer and nails in a drawer in his kitchen for ages, so he finally sets about hanging up all the art he’s had leaning against his walls. He uses the level app on his phone, listening to Vance sing about who he is without you and wonders if that’s already started changing.

In the end, of course, there’s really only one person who can maybe explain. Harry calls Louis to talk him out of it. “What is that sound?” Harry asks when Louis picks up, a fairly ghoulish screaming carrying down the line. “Is that your baby?”

“Yes,” Louis says shortly.

“Do you want me to come over?” Harry asks.

“Why would I want you to come over?”

“To help with the baby,” Harry answers patiently. “I’m ace with kids.”

Louis says, “Might as well come help, since I know you’ve only called to ask me for a favor,” which Harry can’t deny. He picks up a box of donuts and a paper bag filled with In ‘n’ Out burgers and fries on the way as a peace offering.

“Good thinking,” Louis comments when he cracks the door open, his clever blue eyes spotting the food immediately. “Come on in.”

“Wow,” Harry says, stepping over Louis’s threshold. The place is in a total tip, with burp cloths and baby clothes and empty bottles and leftover fast food bags scattered on every surface. “Your place is in a tip. It looks awful in here.”

Louis says dryly, “Thanks, yeah, I feel great about it,” and Harry repents, passing the donuts and burgers off. He keeps only a sleeve of chips for himself; they smell too greasy and hot to resist, and Harry’s pretty sure they’re vegetarian. Pretty sure.

“Where’s your baby?” Harry asks, just as the starts wailing starts up again. Louis leads Harry to the nursery, where his little mini-me is making his face more and more red. The baby’s toothless mouth is wide open and Harry thinks he can see the tonsils, which is fascinating and weird and gross. “How come there’s two cribs?” Harry asks, peering over the side of the other one. He jumps back in surprise. “Why do you have two babies? Louis! Did you steal this one from the hospital? Louis.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Louis says, turning to Harry. “I didn’t steal the baby, Bri had twins. How do you not know this?”

Harry thinks of Niall saying “Out of sight, out o’ mind,” and he scratches his face, biting the inside of his cheek. “You know,” he mumbles, and Louis just shakes his head, scoffing under his breath. Liam would’ve been proper offended and Niall might’ve been disappointed, but Louis knows better. Harry’s always appreciated that about him, that he knows Harry’s shortcomings better than anyone and he never acts like they’re anything more or less than what they are.

“You grab Belle, I’ve got Fred,” Louis instructs, picking up the crying baby. The one Harry’s looking at is lying docilely in her little cot, her face almost smiling. She looks like a tiny clone of Louis, and Harry instantly feels suspicious, like she might be about to shoot him with a water gun. Fred cries loudly, and “He wants tits,” Louis explains shortly, “but Briana’s at spa for the weekend and I’ve got them to myself. Thought it would be a nice bonding opportunity.”

“You’ve got twins?” Harry’s still hung up on that part, that his bandmate who regularly smokes pot out of a bong shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head now has a beautiful baby girl and boy of his own, with peach fuzz for hair and misty eyes. “Aw, Louis,” he says softly.

Louis looks down at Belle in Harry’s arms, her head so tiny that he can cradle it in his palm. “She’s been an angel,” he says quietly. “They both have, when Fred’s not upset. I don’t deserve them,” he admits softly. Fred starts crying again, so Harry follows Louis to the kitchen, where dirty dishes are stacked up on the countertop and the microwave and even on the stovetop. There are empty vodka bottles scattered around, as well, and not the high-end stuff that they get in their mixed drinks at clubs these days, either. There’s kind of a lot of them, actually.

Harry looks back at Louis to find Louis looking at him. He shrugs. “Doesn’t look any worse than our place when we lived together,” he tries. They don’t really talk about that. They don’t talk about much at all, actually, except band stuff. It’s like Louis wants plausible deniability if anyone ever asks him a question about Harry, which plenty of people, and some of their more…convinced fans, do regularly.

Louis shrugs and rolls his eyes and half-snarls all at the same time, and Harry relaxes, because he does remember this. He and Louis hanging out playing FIFA on his widescreen telly, only now he’s watching Louis feed his babies with a bottle in each hand. Like Louis, they can sure put it away. And then they’ve got two wee babies strapped into bouncers watching them play.

“How can you be so good at the video game when you can barely kick a ball in real life?” Louis demands, once Harry’s won his third straight match.

“Had a lot of practice, with you, back then,” Harry says. “Remember that time we bet on who could win the most matches? In, what was it, eight hours overnight? We stayed up the whole time, I still remember the sun breaking through those blinds that shattered when Olly accidentally threw a chair at the window.”

Louis nods slowly. “You did right good,” he admits, and Harry feels a little looser and warmer under the compliment, freed up by it, like, as though he’s seventeen again and Louis is his partner in crime.

It’s confusing even now, the way everything went sideways with them after what felt like just a few months. What he most remembers about Louis is loving him absolutely fiercely. He couldn’t show his love to the whole of Sony or Syco for signing them or ever quite show the audience how much he loved them, but he could show Louis.

Crumpling up the empty In ‘n’ Out bag and setting it next to leftover takeout boxes from Wendy’s and McDonald’s, Louis lets out a sigh. “Okay,” he says, “I know you didn’t just come over to bring me food and play FIFA. What do you want?”

Harry bites his lip. Yeah, he hadn’t come for that, but it’s been nice. He can almost pretend that nothing ever went wrong, that Louis hadn’t shut him out and started acting like he couldn’t even see him. That he hadn’t done the same. “What makes you think I came to ask you for something?”

“Because you wouldn’t have otherwise,” Louis says shortly, his tone dry. “You didn’t even know Bri had twins, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says reflexively. “I didn’t think, like. I don’t know. You wouldn’t have wanted me around.”

Louis just shrugs. “Anyway. Might as well ask.” He sits back, slumping into his couch. “I will say, if it’s a bad idea, that I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Louis is saying just an hour later, when both he and Harry are walking up to the front door, a baby strapped to each of their chests in those nifty baby backpack things. Harry keeps making goofy faces at Belle, and she keeps smiling toothlessly, her little face squishing all up. “This is such a shit idea.”

“Don’t curse around the babies,” Harry just says, pressing the doorbell before he loses his nerve. The bell rings all through the house, and Harry waits impatiently, his heart pounding.

A blond woman opens the door. For a split second Harry thinks it might be Perrie, that she and Zayn have gotten married and properly moved in together the way she used to always talk about, but then he blinks, and he doesn’t recognize her.

She recognizes them, though. “Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles?” She opens the door a little wider. “What do you want?”

“We want to talk to Zayn,” Louis explains, his voice tight. His hands shake a bit, and Harry wonders whether Louis’s going to go for the mini liquor bottle he doesn’t think Harry saw him stick in his back pocket before they left. “Please.”

“I…” she hesitates. “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about you.”

Harry says, “Please, I promise we won’t be long,” and she relents, swinging the door open. She gestures for them to follow her, so they do. Zayn’s sat on the floor of his living room mashing buttons on an XBOX controller, a joint sending up a faint trail of smoke on the ashtray beside him. When he spots Harry and Louis, he stumbles to his feet, his face going very pale.

“Hi,” Harry starts, although he’s not quite sure how he’s going to continue.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” says Zayn’s girlfriend, and then Harry and Louis and Zayn have closed the distance between themselves and Zayn, and Louis cocks his elbow back and punches Zayn in the face.

Harry stumbles back a step, his hand coming up to cradle Belle’ head, the other to protect his face. “What is going on here?” Harry demands, his ears still ringing with the swift brutality of it. “Louis. You promised.”

Louis scowls. “I promised I wouldn’t antagonize him. This felt better, anyway.”

“You fucking prick,” Zayn spits, his voice thick. Blood leaks out of his nose. “Ugh, jeez. Fuck.” He takes a deep breath and when he exhales, a veritable fountain of blood streams out of his nose.

“Oh, geez,” Harry says. “We better get you some ice. Come on.” He’s been in enough of these oversized California mansions to guess where Zayn’s fridge is. His house is neat, if a little lacking in character, but that’s Zayn. Harry’s sure he’s got a basement studio covered in his original paintings, his own songs overplayed from his phone on the house speakers. Harry grabs a rag from the countertop and fills it with ice, giving it to Zayn to hold to his nose. “Looks like it might be broken,” Harry observes. He can’t ignore Louis’s satisfied little smirk.

“I should call the fucking cops on you,” Zayn spits at Louis, who just raises one side of his mouth like a wolf showing a fox its teeth.

Harry cuts in, “You wouldn’t do that. Not to his kids.” And it’s like Zayn notices them for the first time, the wee little things stuck to Harry’s and Louis’s fronts.

“These are your kids?” Zayn asks Louis, one of his dark, well-formed eyebrows quirking up. It’s funny, but. Well, it’s not really funny, but as much as Liam used to answer that he was looking forward to getting married and settling down when the band was over, Harry was never surprised that Zayn was the first to get engaged. He always thought it had to do with Zayn wanting kids of his own than anything else.

Louis half-turns away from Zayn, but he’s a new dad, so he does the same thing any new dad would do and relents almost immediately, wanting to show his babies off.

Harry starts playing with his bottom lip, because he’d thought he could count on Louis to hold a grudge, or at least not melt immediately, but it’s like punching Zayn in the face purged something from his system. Not all of it, probably, but a lot. He hit him quite hard.

Zayn’s face hasn’t changed much in the nearly a year since he quit the band. He wasn’t a little boy or anything, so it shouldn’t, really, but. But sometimes Harry comes back from tour breaks or out of the bog or onto the stage and it’s like he can’t help but stare for the fact that Niall looks like a proper man now, that Liam’s got almost as much ink as Harry does and that even Louis’s grown up, the days of stripes and suspenders long behind him.

“This is Belle,” Louis says, putting his hand on top of the baby’s head, “and this is Freddie.” Freddie starts whining as soon as Louis mentions his name, and Louis starts bouncing a bit where he stands, shushing Fred.

Zayn swallows hard. “Can I hold one?” He runs a nervy hand through his shorn hair. He still looks great, just nothing like the boy Harry remembers from late nights on the tour bus, his shadow spread over the page of Harry’s journal. He’s got tracings of it in some of them, he remembers, Zayn’s quiff captured in the pages of Harry’s memory.

Both Harry and Louis go quiet, and Zayn ducks his head a little, obscuring more of his face with Harry’s homemade icepack. “Never mind,” he mutters. “What’d you even come here for, other than to break my nose? I should still call the cops on you,” Zayn warns them, that wall of strangerhood going back up again, like they never knew each other down to their atoms, like they never talked about how fate brought them all together. It hurts, still, more than Harry thought it would.

“Just…to talk,” Harry explains uncertainly. “I saw a painting in an art museum.”

“Oh, here we go,” Louis rolls his eyes. He drags a barstool out and climbs into it, Freddie bemusedly taken along for the ride.

Zayn leans his hip against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest. Maybe it should bother Harry that Louis’s going to overhear this, but. Louis already expects the worst of him. There’s something kind of liberating about that.

Harry licks his lips. “In the Rubin, in New York. I was, uh. It was of, like, a hand, doing this, sort of,” Harry demonstrates. “And I dunno, it was us, and you, and. And I sort would have liked to have punched you, too, just now,” he admits. It comes out of him sooner than Harry might’ve liked, but he asks, “Why’d you have to quit? Why couldn’t you have just stayed?”

And Zayn blinks slowly, his dark beautiful eyes impossible to read. “Just like that?” he asks rhetorically. He looks down at his feet.

“Just need to know,” Harry says softly.

“I haven’t heard from you since Niall’s birthday,” Zayn points out.

“It’s not like you called either,” Harry snaps before Zayn can guilt-trip him too hard.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Zayn says mildly, his eyes sharp. He turns away from Harry to pull a pitcher of margarita out of the fridge. Zayn grabs a plastic sack full of limes, as well, and sets about slicing them up with one of those little fruit knives, spreading the lime juice along the rim of glasses he lines up along the counter and coating the rim in margarita salt. Zayn’s hands move quickly and efficiently, all false confidence.

Harry swallows. “Did you call him?” he asks.

Zayn squeezes a lime wedge, his fist tightening around it, and Harry can see the lime juice spray onto the kitchen counter. Like Zayn’s a margarita machine with this one tiny flaw in it. “Yeah, I called,” he says shortly.

“And?” Harry prompts him.

“And, what?” Zayn demands. “I wished him a happy birthday, he said thanks and hung up, that’s all, alright?”

But Harry knows Niall, and he knows Zayn, and he knows how they were together. How gentle. Harry’s never had it in him to be jealous of another band member, a leftover from the earliest days, when they were all Vulcan mind-melded together and never quite separated, but he thinks about it sometimes, when Niall makes him an espresso so that it’s ready just as Harry finishes showering or butters his toast for him and brings it to him when Harry forgets that he’d even been making toast in the first place. He’s the special one for a reason.

“I’ve not had the best track record with phone calls, of late,” Zayn adds softly. It’s a cheap shot but Harry still cringes, remembering huddling on the floor of his hotel room while Zayn babbled to him in a panic on a plane home from Bangkok, asking what he thought Harry should do.

“Take some time,” Harry had said immediately. “We can hold the show together until you’re ready, mate. You can go home.”

“I’m afraid if I leave I won’t be able to come back,” Zayn had confessed, laughing brokenly. Harry could hear how clogged his throat was.

Harry had just shaken his head. “You’ll come back. It’ll be okay. The lads will understand. We’ve all…every one of us, we’ve needed time to ourselves. Don’t worry about us.”

“I don’t even know what I was thinking,” Zayn goes on, like Harry hadn’t even spoken. “I’ve got a fiancée, I’ve got no reason for it. Just, she was there, and it was like I wasn’t just Zayn, like, y’know?” He choked on a hitching sob, his line going too quiet for a moment. “My mum’s going to be so ashamed of me.”

“No, she’s not,” Harry had said immediately.

“Feels like I’m going mad,” Zayn said, his voice a whisper. “The only way out is to do shit I know I’ll regret later. What kind of life is that?”

That’s what Harry was thinking of when Zayn’s assistant called to tell him that Zayn wanted to quit the band. That he was quitting the band; there’s not really much difference between “wanted to” and “did,” with Zayn.

“We can do it without him,” Liam had said, after sitting in reeling silence for a long moment, the four of them – four of them, now – gathered in Liam’s room. “We’ve done these last shows, we can finish this tour without him. For the fans.”

Harry remembers staring at Liam like he didn’t even know him. This was Liam, Zaynie’s Liam, and – but of course, all he could think about was the practical bits. Please the fans. Don’t break contract. Like all they were was a business. Harry doesn’t begrudge him for it, but. Maybe he does, a bit.

Louis just kept shaking his head. “He’s off his head, he’ll be back next week, just watch.”

“I don’t think that’d be what’s best for him,” Harry pointed out, even more slowly than usual. Realizing it even as he said it. Feels like I’m going mad, he kept hearing on a loop inside his head, like they were the lyrics to “Clouds.”

“We’ve got so much coming up,” Liam just went on, “I don’t know who to call first. Savan? We’ll need new choreography.”

Liam and Louis went back and forth on “He’s coming back, I promise,” and “New tour books and merchandise and that advert we just filmed, Christ,” until Harry cut in. “Maybe we should take a vote,” he’d said.

“A vote?” Louis repeated, his tone scornful. “What are you talking about?”

“You know,” Harry said. He licked his lips. “Like we talked about at Robin’s place. About continuing the band without somebody.”

“All for one and one for all,” Zayn would’ve said dryly. Harry found himself glancing around the room for him, almost sure he could hear the words.

Liam and Louis stared at him. “You’re quitting too?”

“No, I just think – ”

“Of course he’s quitting, he’s been planning to go solo for ages,” Louis had waved aside Liam’s question.

“I just think we should consider it,” Harry had pressed. Together, or not at all. He could almost still hear Louis saying it, the memory seemed so fresh. The five of them gathered around Robin’s living room when they were all just teenagers. Just kids. Promise.

“People are counting on us,” Liam had said, his voice small. Harry can almost hear his heart breaking, if he listens hard enough past Liam’s distracting pragmatics.

“Are we really One Direction without him?” Harry had asked softly.

Louis just shook his head. “He’s coming back.”

“But in case he doesn’t,” Harry had said. He can almost pretend it’s as easy as Louis makes it. Delete the Facebook post, call off their lawyers and their management and their assistants and all the rest of this circus. “We should vote on it.” It occurred to Harry for the first time that there were only four of them, now, an even number. What would they do if there was a tie?

Giving one last shake of his head, Louis said, “Fine. All in favor of continuing on?” Both Liam’s and Louis’s hands went up. “All in favor of going out together?” Only Harry raised his hand.

Liam, Louis, and Harry looked to Niall. He was just sat on the sofa, his arms folded over his stomach, his face set. “Nialler?” Louis prompted him. “What say ya?”

And Niall just shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he looked Louis right in the eye and it was like something passed between them, too much to fit into a few words.

“It wasn’t easy for us, either,” Harry feels the need to say now, watching Zayn lick margarita salt off the side of the glass before he takes his first sip.

“Ask Louis if he wants a marg,” Zayn just tells Harry.

“You ask him.”

“Want a marg, Lou?”

And of course Louis just pretends not to hear Zayn speak.

Harry sighs deeply. “Do you want a margarita, Louis?”

“Only if it’s not poisoned,” Louis calls back, and Harry grimaces.

“He says he’ll have one,” he tells Zayn dutifully.

Zayn looks up from his worktop with that almost disbelieving smile on his face, and Harry pauses, because there were years when he’d smile back without thinking. When being mates with Zayn and loving Zayn and thinking of Zayn like one of his brothers was just something he did. Now he hesitates, just trying to memorize the way Zayn’s looking at him now, in case he never sees it again. “I heard,” Zayn says dryly, turning away.

He carries their margaritas over to the couch, so Harry and Louis follow suit, unloading the babies onto the cracks between sofa cushions. They’re so tiny Harry thinks they might slip through and get lost amongst Zayn’s misplaced pocket change, lost condoms, and a smattering of candy.

“They’re beautiful,” Zayn comments, folding his skinny legs elegantly beneath him on the floor. “Their dad’s a twat but the kids have turned out fine.”

“Just what I always wanted to hear,” Louis mutters, distracted by Freddie’s death grip on his index finger. Louis gives up trying to get his hand free and rubs his hand over Freddie’s tiny belly and Fred relaxes with a burp.

Zayn observes, “This feels weird. Like we’re old boarding school mates or something meeting up again.”

“It didn’t have to feel weird,” Harry murmurs, touching Belle’s toes lightly with his fingertips.

Zayn takes one last drag off the roach still leaking smoke into his living room and stubs it out on the ashtray, blowing the smoke away from the kids. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to blame me the most, Styles.”

So much so that he brought Louis to punch Zayn in the face and Louis’s babies to make Zayn notice how much he’s really missed. Yeah. That’s pretty cruel. Harry’s stomach churns uncomfortably.

“Didn’t mean to,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to.” He takes a sip of his margarita and it’s so salty that his whole face puckers like he’s just sucked on a lemon, the alcohol burning a little on the way down.

Zayn snorts on a laugh. “No, I. Should’ve known, like.” He studies Harry keenly, fiddling with a ring on his middle finger.

“I would’ve quit when you did,” Harry admits in a rush, looking down at Zayn folded around himself like a pretzel on his own living room floor, a look on his face like he wants to call the cops, a gleam in his eyes like he’s hoping for something. Christ, but does Harry know his face well, even now. He still feels that same peculiar urge – not to prove himself, exactly, but to make sure that Zayn knows he’s more than just the face of the band. More than precisely what Zayn never wanted to be. “We voted, and. I’d’ve done it.”

Zayn takes a deliberate sip of his drink, and even Louis’s gone quiet, probably thinking of those first few months post-Zayn, too. How great and awful they had been, the band reaching new heights at the expense of one of their own. Even if he’d been the one to tear himself off of the rocket ship that was One Direction.

“Why didn’t you?” Zayn asks.

The answer is so simple it’s almost stupid. “Because we voted,” Harry answers. Louis closes his eyes and looks away, and Zayn thumbs at his beard thoughtfully.

“I was going to spend some time in the studio today, like,” Zayn supplies, when the room’s been quiet for too long, Louis soothing his fussy baby the only noise, Belle’s soft pink cheeks twitching like she might want to smile. “D’you want to come up?”

Louis looks to Harry, who bites his lip. Does Harry want him to come along for this part? He already got Harry through the door. No, he doesn’t have to endure that.

Used to, Louis would put all this effort and energy into getting Zayn into the studio when they weren’t just recording, when they were writing, too. It’s exhausting, arduous work, singing the same bit over and over again while you work on melody and note changes and rewrites, but when the song comes out like it’s been born, and it’s perfect. Harry knows Louis thought Zayn never really got that.

“Sure,” Harry says. “Louis, you don’t have to move the kids. We’ll be just down.”

“Take your time,” Louis says, leaning back into the black leather sofa. He rubs at the circles beneath his eyes.

So Harry follows Zayn up the stairs to the little setup he’s got in one of his spare rooms. It’s mostly just a laptop, a mixing board, and a microphone with fabric draped over cardboard walls to muffle outside sounds. Harry stops, because it’s like he’s recreated their setup from recording Midnight Memories and Four. Harry used to be able to hear phantom cheering for hours after a show, hours into recording new material. What a rush that had been.

Zayn plonks down into the rolling chair in front of the laptop, so Harry takes a seat on the edge of a black sofa wedged into the corner of the room. “What are you working on?” Harry ventures to ask.

“‘M not really,” Zayn answers. He leans forward, putting his pointy elbows on his bony knees, and folds his hands under his chin. He’s so beautiful, Harry thinks, with his big dark eyes and those eyebrows and that face. It’s not a face Harry often wants to photograph, though; he’s almost too perfect for that. “Just wanted to get us alone so you could say what you want and move on, like.”

He sounds like he’s mad at him, Harry thinks. Harry doesn’t ask why. There are so many reasons. There are so few good explanations. Some things just happen, Harry’s mum had said when he’d called her to tell her Zayn quit the band. It’d been terrible advice at the time, Harry remembers thinking, but now. Yeah. Some things just happen.

“Niall’s going solo,” Harry announces without preamble. For all his recent changes, Zayn’s still Zayn. He wouldn’t talk to the press if he didn’t absolutely have to.

“Oh,” Zayn draws out, sitting back in his seat. He runs a hand through his hair. “Nialler.” Zayn half-smiles, and the look is fond and vulnerable.

Harry swallows hard. “But…”

Zayn shoots Harry a look that cuts to the bone. “Haz, mate. What did you expect? You can’t just wrangle him into dating you and expect him to stop doing everything else.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t wrangle him, it was an accident, I wouldn’t – ”

Zayn waves his hand. “I know, I know. Still, you have to admit. ‘S worked out pretty well for you, hasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Zayn scoffs. He studies Harry. “Mate, you know he’s been gone for you for forever, right?”

Harry blinks. “Uh.” Yes and no, and maybe, sort of, but not really, not so that Harry was ever properly sure. He settles on the most functional answer he can give. “But he never said anything.”

“It’s Niall!” Zayn says, his eyebrows arched like they always do when he’s worked up, so that he looks a little mad. “How was he meant to say anything when you’d come off stage from grinding on him and go hook up with Kendall Jenner in the backseat of your car?”

“That only happened once,” Harry says, his voice small.

“I’m just saying, mate,” Zayn sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. Harry can still hear Zayn’s voice ringing in his ears like that high note in “You and I,” so loud it seems like it might never stop. Gone for you, he hears. For forever.

Harry pinches his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger. It’s not a feeling he’s accustomed to, after almost six years of breaking records and selling out stadiums and millions of records, this feeling of losing. Of loss. “But he said, he. He’s going – he’s gonna do it without us.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Zayn asks, his voice soft.

Harry shakes his head. “Because, it’s. No Niall, no band. If he – it’s all over.” Harry pulls up short. He looks up at Zayn. He can see Zayn’s makeshift home recording studio behind him, his solo tracks on the laptop over his shoulder, in this house he bought just a few streets over from Harry’s without so much as a howdy-do to the neighbors.

Zayn says, “Just because it’s over doesn’t mean everything stops.” His face is still caked in blood like Louis’s fist-print is tattooed on his face.

The fan on Zayn’s laptop whirs softly, and he can hear water running somewhere else in the house, like he’s got a guest taking a shower. He can smell the particular scent of Zayn’s mum incense, like maybe she’s been to visit recently, and he can tell by Zayn’s five o’clock shadow that he’s due for a bath and shave of his own before he goes out. And there’s not really anything Harry has to say to him. He’s still too close to it, that moment when Zayn left, or they both are, or it’s just that they’ve nothing left in common but five years of memories.

Five years, and Louis. “You should try with him,” Harry says, when he’s standing outside on Zayn’s stoop while Louis gets the car seats ready. Harry adds, “Louis, I mean. He, like. Maybe he needs you.”

“Or I need him, you mean,” Zayn snorts. “Maybe. Maybe someday,” he adds, his eyes slightly too knowing for Harry to feel entirely comfortable. “See you around, Haz.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, thinking of all the LA parties he’d been able to avoid on tour to keep from seeing Zayn, parties he won’t be able to skip out on now. “Will do.”

 

***

 

Harry takes the red eye to New York on his birthday. His mum and Gemma have called and left messages and texts, but Harry hasn’t responded yet. It’s been too early, and he’s been in transit, that’s never a good time to make a call, and. And he’s not sure he’ll be able to hear his mum’s voice without telling her everything, and he doesn’t want to explain that he’s ruined everything without knowing how.

Harry’s first stop is at his flat, where everything is just as he left it last time he was here. The heels of his boots leave little scuffs on the freshly waxed hardwood floors and the air smells of lemon air freshener from the cleaning service, but other that that, it’s just as museum-like as his house in LA. Maybe he should have some of his art shipped over, or. Something, Harry’s not quite sure what.

He changes into a shirt with horses on it that he can’t remember buying, takes his hair out of the bun, and goes downstairs to get a car. The valet pulls around his Range Rover, but Harry sends it back and waits for his convertible instead. It’s still far too cold in New York to drive with the top down and the heater works better in his Range Rover, but he’d like the cold, this once, he thinks. Just numb everything down like Niall’s knee those first few days after his surgery until it heals enough for feeling to be brought back, bit by bit.

Niall had groaned when he saw him at his bedside. He’d caught Harry in the middle of trying to frame a nice shot of the bandages on his leg on his personal phone, the one only family and friends had the number to. “What the fuck are ya doin’ here?” he’d asked, his voice hoarse.

Holding a cup of water to his cracked lips, Harry explained, “Figured we’re both on break, nothing like a lad’s holiday, right?”

Niall tipped his head back against the pillow, blinking his eyes slowly. His eyelashes were so long, and his eyes were so blue. He looked so – precious, that was the only word Harry could think of while he waited anxiously for Niall to say his piece, or kick him out. It’d been the first time they were alone since the debacle after the Jonathon Ross appearance, and maybe Harry had been a little unfair, cornering Niall in his hospital room when he couldn’t even stand up on his own, but he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Some lad’s holiday,” Niall observed, digging his fingers into the blanket a little. “How long have you been here?”

“Couple of days,” Harry shrugged. “I think one of your nurses is sweet on me, she hasn’t made me leave once visiting hours are over.”

His voice wry, Niall said, “Please don’t tell me you’ve been filming me sleep.”

Harry put his hand over Niall’s, finally, because he had to. Niall’s always been a fidgeter and normally it’s fine, he’s getting his nerves out, but sometimes it hurt Harry to watch him. “Someone has to,” Harry merely said, smiling when Niall cracked a grin.

“Kendall around?” Niall asked, half-raising his head like he actually thought Harry would have brought her. Harry watches the tendons in his throat move, the sarcastic, pained grin on his face.

“Sorry,” Harry said lowly. “Sorry about, like, her, and if I’d known – ”

“No, stop,” Niall cut him off. “We don’t need t’ talk about it.”

Except Harry could still remember the look on Niall’s face when he walked in on them just a few months ago, how bitter he sounded when he told Harry, later, congrats for that one, she was a beaut. Niall should never sound bitter, Harry thought. Not because of him, not when love is supposed to make you happier, not sadder.

But Harry had just bit his lip and nodded, because he couldn’t very well explain that he only hooked up with Kendall because Ed called him in a strop over Ellie taking Niall back to her room after some event.

The cold February air blows Harry’s hair back from his face and he makes a quick stop at the liquor store before meeting Xander at the restaurant he picked for his birthday dinner. It’s mostly Xander’s mates, and Harry goes into autopilot, greeting everyone politely and making a few inoffensive joke. When his salad arrives, Harry picks at the walnuts, eyeing the golden, greasy fries on Xander’s uni mate’s plate without trying to take any. His salad isn’t quite as excellent as Harry remembers from previous visits.

Night sets in and they start in on the bar crawl with dreadful enthusiasm. Harry keeps pace with the others, for once, the fact of his awful tolerance remembered too late for him not to be hanging onto Xander just to stay upright by the end of the night.

Xander sets him down in a planter at the door of what might be their eighth or ninth club to call a cab, Harry’s forehead and underarms unpleasantly damp from all the dancing he’d been doing. He leans forward and puts his head between his knees, taking deep breaths of the air near the pavement, smelling cigarette smoke and snow and the alcohol on his own breath.

Xander moves to pile into the cab beside Harry when it screeches up to the curb, but Harry stops him with a hand on his chest. “If you come back with me I’m going to make a move on you, and if you say yes, I’m going to regret it,” Harry manages to string together, his voice slow as syrup, bizarrely soothing to his own ears. It still hurts to say it, to know that when the door shuts he’ll have spent his whole birthday with people he wouldn’t trust himself with.

“Okay,” Xander says. He ruffles Harry’s hair and, apparently deciding that’s not enough, leans in to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, bud.”

“Anytime,” Harry slurs, slouching back in his seat. Xander shuts the door and the cab trundles off, taking him home.

The bloke at the doors looks familiar, and then he says, “Mr. Styles!” and Harry remembers Wes the doorman who gets off to “Stockholm Syndrome.”

Harry lets out a watery laugh. “Wes!” He all but falls into Wes’s arms, his legs slippery and uncertain on the icy pavement. “I’m sorry,” Harry apologizes, and Wes just grunts, hauling Harry the rest of the way inside. Harry’s arm loops around his neck and Wes makes no comment, just half-carries Harry to the lift and up to his flat. He puts Harry to bed with a glass of water on the bedside table and a couple of paracetamol for the morning. He pats the top of Harry’s head like Harry’s grandfather might, and Harry sighs, burrowing down under the covers.

“Sorry,” Harry repeats. “I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you should stop doing things you have to apologize for,” Wes observes, stretching his back with a sigh. “Good night, Mr. Styles.”

“It’s Harry,” Harry gets out before Wes leaves. “‘M just Harry, thanks.”

He lies awake staring at the ceiling, imagining Niall breathing slowly and steadily beside him. Remembering it. He calls his mum.

“Harry, honey, is everything okay?” Her voice is a little out of sorts, a little froggy, and Harry realizes he must’ve woken her up. He can picture her in her room in the house, sitting up in bed and flicking the bedside table light on, Sue Grafton’s latest novel dog-eared on the nightstand.

“I’m a little drunk,” Harry starts, “and I’m sorry I don’t come home enough. Everything’s always so different, I never know where to start.”

“Oh, honey,” Anne sighs. “Nothing is different, really. I’m still here, you’re still you. It’s all the same, really.”

Harry blinks a few times, his eyes burning. “Yeah,” he mumbles into the receiver, wishing he saw it that way. Wishing he really was as old as he felt sometimes; he feels sixteen now and it’s even more uncertain than being sixteen actually was. He was just so sure they were going to make it, and now.

“Happy birthday,” Anne says, and Harry could cry, because she’s been saying to him every year on his birthday since he was toddling around in Gemma’s hand-me-down trainers, his hair still mostly blond. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Mum,” Harry whispers.

“Get some sleep,” says Anne, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Harry nods even though he knows she can’t see him. “G’night.”

The clock ticks over from 1:32am to 1:33, and Harry stops hoping that Niall will call, or text. He rolls over, buries his head under a pillow, and goes to sleep.

 

***

 

Harry has twenty-seven journals, all a jumble of words and lyrics and quotes and pictures and sketches and tracings and ticket stubs, bits of confetti from a show he went to, the playbill from the performance of The Book of Mormon that Niall dragged him to in the middle of tour. It’s not so much a record of the last few years so much as it is an ongoing reading of Harry’s brain, like these journals are the little needle of the lie detector machine.

There are dozens and dozens of songs, Harry’s surprised to find. Bits of lyrics he hadn’t meant to put together actually fit well into songs, and he can even hear melodies for some of them, even chord changes for the verses. He’s going through his journals again for the next verse of a song when the doorbell goes, so Harry leaves his brain map open on the library floor and goes to get the door.

Niall’s stood on the stoop with a box under his arm, the tops of his shoulders and his hair damp from the rain. Harry takes in the sight of him eagerly, the scuffed toes of his trainers and the frays in his jeans and the way his t-shirt is tight around his belly under his open flannel and his wool peacoat. Harry knows the light freckles at the tops of his cheeks and the worry line across his forehead and the dimple that pops into existence in his cheek better than the back of his hand.

“Are you gonna let me in or should I call the car back here?” Niall asks, his voice hoarse, his cheeks a little pink.

Harry steps back automatically, holding the door open wider for Niall to step in and shake water all over his welcome mat. He hangs his coat up on the rack on the wall. “Shall I make a cuppa?” Harry asks, already moving toward the kitchen.

“Maybe,” Niall starts. “Open this first, alright? I don’t think it can wait much longer.”

Harry moves back toward the entryway, and the box that comes up to about Niall’s knee, slowly. “What is it?” he asks tentatively. Last year Louis and Liam sent him a box that exploded with sparkles the moment he touched it, he’s not keen on cleaning a mess of that magnitude up again.

Niall shrugs, his shoulders quick and tight, a little nervous, probably, so Harry crouches beside the box. When it moves, he falls back, crawling backwards until his back hits the table behind his couch. Smiling, Niall rolls his eyes and pops the lid off the box. He scoops a teddy bear – wait, no, it’s alive, is it – a dog out of the box. The puppy kicks its hind legs, its tongue lolling out comfortably.

Niall bends down and puts the puppy on its feet, and it promptly comes over to sniff Harry, its tail working double-time. The dog plops down on Harry’s shin, all twenty-something pounds of it. “It’s, like,” Niall starts, apparently taking Harry’s silence as a bad sign, “so you have someone to run with. You know, so you won’t be lonely at four a.m. when you can’t stop thinking about whatever the fuck pretentious thing you’re stuck on this week.”

Harry pulls the dog into his arms, and it smells like wet dog, but it’s big and alive and Harry’s, and Harry sinks his fingers in the dog’s mane and scritch-scratches through its fur until the dog flops over onto its belly and starts kicking its legs into the air.

“Funny, you do the same thing,” Niall observes, easing himself down beside Harry and the dog. His bad knee always goes a little stiff in the rain. “It’s a boy, by the way.”

“Where’d you find him?” Harry asks, wanting the full story. Wanting to know every little thing, every tiny detail.

Niall rubs the dog’s belly. “From a no-kill shelter, don’t worry. He’s some kind of collie mix, maybe part retriever, with all this hair, and a couple of years old.”

“Just a young lad,” Harry smiles, squeezing the dog’s head a bit. He just can’t not, he’s too cute. “What should we name him?”

Niall shrugs. “Your dog, Haz, you name him.”

Harry watches the pup stretch under their petting hands, then get restless. He holds his tail high while he scopes out his new digs, sniffing Harry’s furniture and trying to knock his trash can over and investigate what’s inside. His fur is a nice dark brown with bits of white and black, and his legs are too long for his body, but he’ll grow into them. “I’ll have to get to know him better first,” Harry decides.

He and Niall look at each other. Harry sort of wishes he’d bothered to change out of his soft gray joggers and Packers sweatshirt and that he’d done something with his hair other than scrape it all back from his face with a sweatband, but Niall doesn’t look at Harry like he sees anything wrong with him.

“I didn’t fuck Xander,” he says, flat-out.

Niall flinches, biting his lip. “You could’ve. I’d no right to be mad.”

Harry shrugs. “Didn’t want to, anyway.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

“Good?” Harry repeats.

Niall rolls his eyes a bit, his flush deepening. “You know what I mean,” he says, tilting his head back to let Harry kiss him. Harry’s grateful for the thick carpet on his knees, although he doesn’t think he’d much notice if it were hard tile. Harry runs his hands through Niall’s hair, letting his palms slide down around Niall’s neck so that he can feel Niall’s pulse in the tips of his index fingers. His skin is warm and sweet-smelling with rain and his cologne, and he kisses Harry back so softly, like he’s trying to say sorry, too.

Harry’s hit in the small of his back and he halfway topples over onto Niall, who catches him by the hips. Harry’s new dog shakes his head like he hadn’t meant to headbutt Harry in the back, and then he looks up with bright, excited eyes, like maybe getting tackled is a game Harry will want to continue. “Fetch,” Harry decides. “You’ve got to learn that one.”

Niall groans a bit under Harry’s weight and adds, “Might feed him, I suppose.”

“And give him a tour of his new place,” Harry thinks aloud, helping Niall up.

Harry downloads three baby name apps over dinner and reads the ones he likes aloud to the dog to see if he’ll react to one to no avail. Niall’s got him a crate, as well, and the mailman delivers it just a little after he and the dog got in. Niall says it’s the best thing for the dog to get used to sleeping in the crate, but the pup cries from the moment Harry puts him in, so Harry spends hours singing and talking to him until he finally calms down and goes to sleep.

Harry tiptoes into the bedroom, where Niall’s sat up in bed watching the match. “He finally go down?” Niall asks, watching Harry knee-walk up the bed to him with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reaches up to tangle his fingers in Harry’s hair and Harry collapses onto Niall’s lap, shuffling until Niall’s knobbly knees aren’t digging into his stomach too much. “You smell like wet dog,” Niall comments, and Harry can picture his grimace.

“My back hurts,” Harry whines, twisting around until he’s almost comfortable, fit between Niall’s spread legs with the lower half of his body hanging off the side of the bed.

“Go take a shower and I’ll give you a backrub,” Niall offers, his attention back on the telly. There’s not much time left on the clock, so, grumbling, Harry leaves him to it. His hair goes past his shoulder blades when it’s wet, it’s so long, tickling his back, and Harry shivers under the hot shower spray, trying to decide if he wants to cut it. He ties a towel around his waist when he’s done, wondering whether he ought to shave. Maybe tomorrow.

A gasp of steam rushes out of the bathroom when Harry opens the door, and the match still isn’t over, so Harry flops face-down onto the bed. “I’ve been lied to,” he bemoans into a pillow, turning his head to subtly watch Niall.

Niall snorts. “Give me five minutes.”

“I’m counting,” Harry warns him. He watches Niall until Niall twigs to it, and then Niall just laughs and hits the power button on the TV. He tosses the remote aside and throws one leg over Harry’s back and pushes himself up so that he’s sat astride him, his weight pressing Harry down into the mattress just a bit, just so that he can feel it. It feels good.

Niall runs his hands up Harry’s back softly, then down again, leaning closer, his breath soft and cool. Harry shivers and closes his eyes. Niall kisses the spot behind his ear, and his jaw, and then he mouths over the bone at the top of Harry’s neck, his thumbs digging into tops of Harry’s shoulders so that Harry moans. Harry’s skin feels too hot against the blankets, and he shifts a little, trying to get his back molded to Niall’s stomach.

Niall sits up, laughter in his voice. “So easy,” he murmurs, and Harry remembers his hands on Harry’s hips under his shirt that night in the hallway of Niall’s house. He shivers again. Niall proper starts massaging Harry’s back, alternating between his fingers and the heel of his hand, so that Harry’s gone boneless by the time Niall’s at the base of his spine, where Harry’s always the most sore. Niall’s breath fans out at the line of the towel, just over the rise of Harry’s arse, his lips light, almost teasing.

He sits up and digs his thumbs deep into the knot of tension in Harry’s back. Harry lets out a particularly throaty moan and Niall thrusts down against him, his fingers digging into Harry’s hips. Harry can feel that he’s not the only one who’s been getting hard. Harry’s brain stops working entirely, just an empty space echoing with the way that felt, and then he gasps.

There’s a moment of absolute stillness, and then Niall says, his voice a little high and taut, “Well, there you go, deal upheld,” before he bolts into the loo. Harry’s still too discombobulated to get words out, and then he hears the door click shut.

“Niall?”

Water starts running and Harry can hear Niall humming “Edge of Seventeen,” like he always does when he’s brushing his teeth. Niall reappears from the bathroom just a few moments later, his lips unfairly red. He averts his eyes from Harry as he strips down to his pants and his t-shirt, and then he moves toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To sleep – uh, to sleep in my room?”

“Your room?” Harry repeats. He still feels like he’s just done the ice bucket challenge again, he’s so out of sorts. “Why?”

“Just…I dunno.”

“Well, come to bed, then,” Harry says, tossing his towel to the floor and sliding underneath the covers. He rolls onto his side and listens to Niall climb into bed. He doesn’t snuggle up behind Harry like Harry wants him to, so Harry shuffles backwards until he bumps into Niall, and then he grabs his arm and pulls it over his side. “I’ve been deprived,” Harry sniffs.

He can’t figure out what he’s done wrong this time, and he’s nervous that Niall won’t – that maybe he only kissed him to be nice, that really he’d rather Harry not do all that anymore. Niall presses closer to him, his wide palm placed right over Harry’s heart. He must be able to feel how fast it’s beating, because Niall nuzzles the nape of Harry’s neck, letting out a little sigh. “Me, too.”

 

***

 

The streets of Los Angeles are curiously slow to Harry past midnight, although he should be used to it by now. Everyone’s got their alarm set for yoga or surfing or a run in the morning before work. Anyway, he’s not complaining. He can take his motorcycle as fast as he dares on the long stretches of straight highway. He chooses an exit by random and learns the city that way, just by driving around it.

But that’s only on nights when his dog looks too comfortable on the floor of his crate for Harry to wake him up and drag him out on endless wandering jogs.

Harry wakes up slowly one morning, the sunlight bleeding through the curtains the deepening gold of growing springtime. Niall’s sat up at the desk with his laptop open, a Skype window showing several different faces. He’s wearing earbuds so Harry stays quiet and watches him listen for a while, only occasionally throwing out comments.

Harry hears a snuffling, and feels a solid warm weight move on the mattress, and he starts stroking the dog’s fur. The dog puts his head down on Harry’s shoulder, his breath smelling of dog food and grass and soil. It’s not a bad smell, all things considered.

“I don’t know,” he says, in response to someone’s question. “But I’ll be back for the Brits soon, so we can settle it then, right? I know, I know. I know!” he laughs, sounding a little stressed-out. “I promise we’ll get rehearsals started soon.” Soon after the Skype chat ends and Niall plucks the earbuds out of his ears.

“Morning,” Harry announces himself, his voice raspy.

Niall looks round at him. “Hey,” he smiles, his voice going soft. “You’ve got to stop coming to bed straight after a run, I wake up smelling worse than when I went to bed.”

“Ooh la la,” Harry mutters, entertaining himself by flipping the dog’s ears inside out and back again. He laughs. “Thought that’d be a good thing.”

“You know what I mean,” Niall says, lying down on the other side of the dog. He rolls onto his side, propped up on his elbow. Harry strains his neck and Niall meets him halfway, rolling his eyes fondly, to kiss him good morning. Harry snakes one hand into Niall’s hair to keep him close, throwing his leg out as well, hoping for one of Niall’s legs to lock around. “What have you got planned for the day?”

Harry shrugs. Nothing, if he can help it. If Niall’s not busy, then they can spend the whole day properly ruining the sheets. And the Chinese place up the road finally started doing delivery. Maybe there’s a new dolphin documentary on Netflix, but there’s always Parks and Rec. Sounds like a perfect day, actually.

“Are you feeling okay?” Niall asks, caressing the side of Harry’s face with his knuckles. He frowns a little. “Just. You’re acting like even more of a geriatric than you normally do.” Niall slides his hand down to cup Harry’s shoulder, the callouses on his fingertips so, so good.

“How soon, uh,” Harry swallows. “How soon until you have to start rehearsals?”

“You heard that?” Niall grimaces. The dog starts snoring between them and Niall sits back, running a hand through his hair. “Soon, I guess. Maybe a bit before the Brits. We’re having a hell of a time finding a space.”

“Why don’t you rehearse here?” Harry asks. “You and your, uh, band. They can stay here, even, and.”

Kindly, Niall doesn’t shoot him down at once. “And rehearse in your garage?” he smiles. “Kinda thought we skipped that step.”

“No, there’s,” Harry thinks of the photograph he’d taken at random not very long ago. He’s had it developed and it’s sat in a shoebox with the rest of the set, waiting for Harry to figure out what to do with it. “The Grand Olympic Auditorium. I’ve seen it, it probably would do. Or I can find somewhere else.”

Niall’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Harry’s heart clenches. “Alright,” Niall sighs, leaning in to kiss Harry again, even though he complains that the dog smells and Harry’s morning breath tastes like a sandwich someone left in the sun for two days. “If you want.”

Niall reads the entry on the Grand Olympic Auditorium from Wikipedia in the car on the way to their meeting with the realtor. “People used to box here, that’s sick,” he comments, while Harry swerves across four lanes of traffic to make their exit. It snuck up on him, honestly. “And record music videos, too. Bon Jovi did ‘Livin’ on a Prayer Here.’ Sick.”

Harry hopes very hard that he’s not going to have disappointed Niall when they get in and find it covered in cobwebs or that a pack of stray dogs have been living there.

As it turns out, which Harry and Niall find after making their way past a line of paps, the dog straining on his leash against Harry’s hand, after almost ten years of disuse the place doesn’t look half-bad. Dusty, yeah, but all the pipes and wires are in good shape, and the main stage is in decent enough order for them to start rehearsals by the end of the week.

Niall’s new band of musicians borrowed from other bands responded eagerly to coming out to sunny California for a couple of weeks of rehearsals. It makes Harry’s stomach churn, the thought of them, but he wants to meet them, as well. Some of them he already knows. Gary Lightbody’s on loan from Snow Patrol and Steve Garrigan’s come out from Kodaline to play, and the lads from Hudson want to do at least one show, and one of the members of the Pogues has even talked about doing a show as long as he gets to wear whatever he wants. Niall’s just hoping he won’t try to come nude.

For the most part, though, Niall’s the only constant. Their set’s meant to be mainly cover songs, so that’s what he and the others are trying to figure out. And vocal arrangements and instrumental stuff, too. Niall spends lots of time organizing the logistics on his spreadsheets, which Harry finds incredibly endearing. It still makes his stomach hurt, but not as bad as it did.

Time starts moving faster than ever, Harry would swear it. Just yesterday it was his birthday and now he and Niall are on their way to the airport to pick up a handful of Irish musicians. “Hey,” Niall says, nudging Harry’s elbow on the console with his own when they’re sat at a train crossing, waiting for the train to pass.

Harry turns down the Beatles’ White Album – they want a Beatles song, they’re just not sure which one, and Harry lives for “I Will” – and lets his sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose a little. “Yeah?”

“I know you don’t, like. I know me doing this isn’t exactly a dream come true for you, so, just. Thank you, a lot, for helping me, anyway.”

Harry takes his eyes off the taillights in front of him to look at Niall, but all he can see in the reflection of Niall’s mirrored sunglasses is himself. He didn’t know Niall – well, he did kind of know that Niall knew he wasn’t overwhelmed with joy about it. But he didn’t mean to make Niall think he wasn’t happy for him, too. “I just want you to be happy,” Harry eventually says, and Niall nods, turning back to the road, where traffic’s finally starting to move again.

Harry hangs around the band’s rehearsals, usually with his dog at his feet, while Niall and the others hash out the details. He didn’t think he’d like to be there, but he finds it’s oddly soothing. It gets his heart racing in a steady, safe feeling way, like building a rocket from scratch only this time they know what they’re doing.

He brings along his journal and listens to Gary and Noel Gallagher go rounds over who gets to sing which part, and Noel and Scott Gorham go rounds over the best Irish band of all time, and generally just Noel making an arse of himself at all times. Rehearsal breaks down all the time because someone threatens to walk out if Noel isn’t forced out of the as-yet-unnamed band, but hating him is kind of a bonding experience for the rest of them.

Harry listens to it with a smile, sorting through the half-finished songs he pulled from his old journals. He’s got the fragments of songs plastered to the pages of a new journal and he’s going through and completing them. He’s sent a few off to Meghan Trainor and John Legend already and they’ve responded enthusiastically, so he’s looking for more, and for others. There’s a little band out of England called the Maccabees with a nice sound, and something called Moon Taxi with a sound Harry would like to work with.

Writing is different than singing the songs himself. He misses the live shows, especially the arenas and the stadiums, and the way it felt to be watched by sixty, seventy, eighty thousand people at a time. Mostly, though, he’s glad he gets to wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, feed the dog, buy frozen yogurt, shag Niall in the evenings after rehearsal but before they go out with the lads, and then wake up the next day and do it all over again.

Louis comes to rehearsals sometimes, too. Mainly Harry goes round and picks him up, since that’s something he can do now. Since he’s dating Niall and Louis’s got two babies. Louis helped Harry with “Perfect,” so he thought maybe he could help with some of Harry’s other unfinished songs. The lyrics roll off his tongue with no effort at all, it seems, either because he’s so practiced at it or because he’s just a natural.

Louis sits in the audience seats beside Harry and pulls the journal over to himself, flipping through the pages. Harry flips through Louis’s phone, looking at the most recent pictures and videos of Louis’s babies. Since Briana’s gotten back into town, they’re happier babies, although Louis doesn’t get them as much. Custody is one of those things Harry thought was part of someone else’s life, a proper grown-up thing. Louis is that, though, now. So is he, Harry supposes.

“Why don’t you write anything but love songs?” Louis thinks aloud. “Why are they all so sad, you miserable bastard?”

“They aren’t sad,” Harry defends himself. “I don’t think. Do they seem sad to you?”

Louis shrugs. “Depends on how you sing ‘em, I guess. If it’s you singing them, then no, they’re just cheesy as shit. If it’s them singing your songs,” he goes on, gesturing at Niall and his new band, Niall scratching at his forehead with a drumstick clenched in his hand while Noel whinges about something or other, “then they might actually be quite good, yeah. Sad, but good.” Louis looks sideways at Harry. “Want to tell me who these are about?”

“Nope,” Harry says, casting his eyes about. If he looks at Niall, Louis’s going to know. Oh, God. Now he’s thinking about Niall, though, and he wants to look at him, so he does.

“Christ,” Louis mutters under his breath. After a moment, he says, “I thought that was only pretend?”

Harry shrugs. “Some – some bits, yeah. And others, uh. Well. I don’t know, really?”

Louis rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, but it’s not acidic, like it can be. It almost feels kind. “Lads,” Louis speaks up, interrupting rehearsal, “just play a fucking practice show here before you take the show back to the UK. For fuck’s sake.”

Niall and Greg and Steve and the others look at each other for a moment. “That’s…not a bad idea,” Steve volunteers, and Louis sits back in his seat, huffing. “Obviously,” he mutters, already beginning to smile.

Since they have a show they have to advertise for, they need a name now. Rehearsals utterly dissolve into an argument about what the band should call themselves. “We need a ‘The ___’ name,” Noel insists, “since the roster changes, it makes the most sense.”

“We should be ‘Niall Horan and the ___’”, Steve points out, “since he’s the constant.”

“Niall Horan and the what?” Hozier asks, his voice tinny over Niall’s phone. More and more musicians are taking an interest in performing in a show, which Harry can tell is kind of overwhelming to Niall, but also immensely exciting.

Harry doodles a bumblebee on the margin of his journal, searching for a synonym for “sky.” “Niall Horan and the Moonlights,” he says, mostly to himself. The room goes quiet and Harry looks up, half-ready to find Noel’s got a drumstick shoved up his nose.

“Say that again,” Steve orders.

“Niall Horan and the Moonlights?” Harry repeats. “What, do you like it?”

“It’s kind of perfect,” Gary comments, looking round at the others. “‘Cos, like, we’re all moonlighting with this band.”

Harry nods like he’d thought of that, too.

“Okay,” Niall says. “I guess we’ve got a name, then.”

He smiles wide, and Harry smiles back, his heart aching.

 

***

 

The night before they’re due to leave for the Brits, Niall stays late at rehearsal to figure which guitars he’ll need to bring around with him on tour in the shoddy refurbished bus the band is using. Harry thinks it’s a deathtrap, but Niall likes it. Keeps calling it “authentic.”

Harry treats himself to several glasses of wine, his collection of guilty pleasure music, and a long soak in the bathtub. His hair had floated around his shoulders in the tub, it’s so long, so Harry tied it up. He can’t see his skin past the thick layer of bubbles from the bath bomb he threw in, which is weird and disorienting, in a pleasant way.

The security system beeps when the front door opens, and Niall calls, “Harry?”

Harry jerks awake, the towel he’d been using as a pillow damp under his head. “Here,” he calls. He hears Niall’s boots crushing the carpet before he sees him.

Niall doesn’t bother knocking before he pokes his head into the bathroom. When he spots Harry, he smiles, stepping all the way in. “Were you napping in the tub again? D’you need me to remind you of all the reasons why that’s a bad idea?”

“No,” Harry huffs, smiling. Niall moves closer, perching on the edge of the tub. He sniffs. “It’s pumpkin salted caramel vanilla,” he supplies. “I’m trying out new scents.”

“It smells like a bakery exploded all over my nan,” Niall comments, “but okay.” He kicks away his shoes and peels off his socks, moving so that he’s straddling the tub, his bad leg joining Harry in the water. He settles against the wall, humming in relief.

Harry palms his calf, feeling the soft dark hair on his leg and his lean muscles. He runs his thumb over Niall’s scar and Niall’s leg twitches involuntarily, his body jerking. “Hm,” Harry hums, leaning out of the water to get his mouth on Niall’s knee.

“Harry,” Niall says softly. It’s Harry’s favorite tone that Niall uses with him, but it’s also the one that scares him the most. He knows that Niall’s going to leave soon and not come back and he knows that the March deadline to figure out what he’s going to do next is coming up and he’s still not sure what he’s going to do about it, and he wants to just – say it, finally, what he should’ve said ages ago, in Italy, when Niall asked.

He’s too afraid that it’ll sound like a goodbye, though. That’s the last thing Harry wants to say to Niall. So instead, he seizes a handful of Niall’s soft t-shirt and pulls him over the side of the tub so that Niall lands on top of Harry, water slopping over the side of the bathtub. His clothes are soaked instantly. Harry’s hands come up to knot in Niall’s hair, and he latches onto his mouth desperately, like a diver drawing oxygen from a scuba tank.

“Haz,” Niall gets out. Harry just kisses him deeper, hooking his ankle over Niall’s calf to hold him close. “Harry. Harry,” Niall says again, so Harry breaks off.

“What?” he asks.

“There’s, like, an entire bed three meters away.”

Harry laughs when Niall does, his breath warm on Harry’s face. “D’you want to fuck me?” He feels more than hears Niall’s breath catch. “Only if you want to.” Just, he can’t stop thinking about Niall getting off by grinding against him. How satisfying it’d felt. Harry runs his fingers through Niall’s wet hair again, tugging a little on his scalp when it seems like Niall’s gone into full lockdown mode.

“You want that?” Niall asks.

“What, you haven’t thought about it?” Harry laughs, scratching Niall’s Achilles tendon with his toes until he twitches, scowling.

Niall shrugs as much as he can with his weight braced over Harry, Harry’s hands all over his back. “Dunno. ‘S pretty gay, like.”

“You sucked me off this morning,” Harry points out.

“I mean, I know. I just wasn’t sure, like.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Harry has that feeling again, that soppy, achy feeling deep in the center of his chest, like he wants to cry about something that hasn’t happened yet. He pulls Niall’s face down to his, their foreheads pressed together. “Been wanting this for five years,” Harry says quietly. Niall’s breath catches, and then he’s kissing Harry again, fast and sloppy, his five o’clock shadow bristly and welcome, like the pumice stone Harry uses to make his skin soft.

Niall climbs out of the tub first and helps Harry out, his eyes raking over him appreciatively. Late afternoon sunlight pours in through the windows, bringing out the blond in Niall’s hair and the blueness of his eyes. Harry helps Niall peels his clothes off, and they leave them soaking on the bathroom floor.

He gets distracted again, pulling Niall up against him with the bath towel uselessly hanging from his hand. Niall plucks it out of his grip and drapes it around Harry’s shoulders like a cape, but he ignores the hint to dry off in favor of sucking the taste of rose water of the spot behind Niall’s ear. He thinks about licking Niall all over, “like a cat,” he accidentally says out loud. Niall groans, because of course he gets it, and dries them both himself. He starts pulling Harry toward the bed.

“Tell me you’ve got lube,” Niall says urgently. Harry pretends to think about it and Niall shoves him over onto the bed, Harry squeaking in a very undignified way in surprise. “Arsehole,” Niall says fondly.

Harry rolls over to rifle through his bedside table. “You want my – ” he starts, and Niall hits him with a pillow. He glances at Niall over his shoulder. “Did I ruin the mood?”

Niall grimaces. “Fortunately, no. Have you got it or what?”

“Ha!” Harry raises the bottle victoriously. Niall climbs onto the bed and crawls on top of him, plucking the bottle from his hand. He kisses the closest bit of Harry within reach, which happens to be the middle of his forearm, and Harry settles against the pillows. He’s starting to get excited in a real, physical way, and he gets a hand on himself, watching Niall slick his fingers up.

“Let me,” Niall says, when he’s positioned himself between Harry’s legs.

“Just a tick,” Harry says, grabbing a spare pillow from the head of the bed and fitting it under his hips. “Okay.” He knees Niall, gently, in the side. “Come on, then.”

So Niall leans down and takes him into his mouth. Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to the sight, as comfortable and familiar as it is now. When Niall starts working his fingers in, Harry can see why he’d be worried about it being painful. Painful is not quite the word, but it’s definitely not comfortable, and Harry closes his eyes and concentrates on Niall’s mouth, and his solid warm hand pressing down comfortingly on Harry’s stomach, until the discomfort passes.

“Niall,” Harry says, fuzzily blinking his eyes open, and Niall murmurs a response against Harry’s jaw. His low hoarse voice sends shivers down Harry’s spine, and before he can give a warning, he’s coming all over Niall’s hand and his own stomach.

Niall stops moving. “Did you just…?”

Harry blinks a few times, feeling like he was blindsided with it. “Huh. Yeah.”

“You liked it that much?” Niall asks, like he needs confirmation. He slips his hand out and Harry winces, wishing there was a way to just combine the two of them, like through osmosis.

His eyes slipping shut, Harry murmurs, “What can I say, Nialler. Awfully good with those hands. Just,” he yawns, “give me a mo’ and I’ll be ready to go again. Promise.”

“Don’t promise me that,” Niall says, sounding amused and pained at the same time. “You’re ‘bout to go to sleep.”

Harry drowsily pulls Niall’s face down to his, kissing him so slowly he might be asleep with it. Niall comes quickly and Harry waits for Niall to clean them up with the edge of the sheet before he rolls over, worming backwards toward Niall. “Next time,” Harry promises him. “Just don’t be as good.”

“Duly noted,” Niall snorts, pressing a kiss to Harry’s head. “G’night.”

 

***

 

“I hate airports,” Niall mutters, fidgeting with his sunglasses. Harry watches Heathrow come into view on the descent, Louis’s snoring like the droning of an engine behind them.

Harry puts his hand over Niall’s, patting him clumsily. “Me, too,” he agrees, though he doesn’t think he’d mean it if there wasn’t the threat of a riot to think about. Actually Harry quite likes airports, and the way anything and everything could happen, or nothing. Some writer he read once called them interstitial spaces, but they’ve made up such a huge part of Harry’s life. He’s had breakups and hookups alike in airport bathrooms.

“Me three,” Louis says blearily, his voice thick with sleep. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Coming in,” Niall tells him. “Just half an hour or so left, and then.”

“Liam’s meeting us at the hotel,” Louis tells them, suppressing the excitement in his voice. Harry wonders how the wonder twins have been coping with Louis’s new babies and Liam’s quest for the perfect engagement ring. Sometimes it’s like the members of their band are living in totally different phases of life, Harry thinks, looking at his hand over Niall’s, which is still clenched around the armrest.

There’s a veritable army of security waiting to escort them from their terminal to the fleet of black cars waiting for them outside the airport. Harry loses Niall and Louis somewhere between customs and sliding into the backseat of the Range Rover that someone from security shoves him into, and Harry slides down his seat, breathing hard. He can’t see the top of Niall’s head in any of the other cars. He knows he’s fine, but. He’d like to be there, is all.

Harry checks his phone while he waits for the car to take him to the hotel. His mum has texted, so Harry calls her back. “Mum?”

“No, Haz, it’s Gem,” Gemma answers. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Harry says stupidly. “Gemma, hi.” He’s missed the sound of her voice so much, he almost can’t believe it. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you, as always,” Gemma half-laughs, her voice a little high, a little bitter, like lemonade without enough sugar in it. “We’re still going to dinner tonight, aren’t we?”

Belatedly, Harry remembers the dinner Anne set up for her kids to reconnect. Harry had forgotten all about it. “Oh, yeah, of course.” Harry swallows, thinking of his promise to go to dinner with Grimmy and that lot, and then maybe meet up with Niall and Liam after. “I can’t wait.”

“Really,” Gemma says dryly, “because it sounds like you forgot all about it. If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I’m sure you must have other plans.”

Hurriedly Harry says, “No, not – I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, is all, and – ”

Gemma sighs. “Of course, Haz. Just let me know when you can fit me in. Bye, love.”

Harry calls Niall. “Which car are you in?”

“I’ve no clue,” Niall answers, sounding grouchy. “They practically picked me up and threw me in here, I’ve got Bas and Phil sat on either side of me, neither of whom are petite lads, gentleman.” Harry can picture him squirming for more elbow room. “What’s up?”

“Gemma’s mad at me,” Harry admits in a rush. “She wanted to have dinner tonight only I forgot and made other plans, and – ”

“Cancel them,” Niall says immediately.

Harry flounders. “But it’s Grimmy and them, and – ”

“Cancel,” Niall repeats.

“But – ”

Niall cuts him off again. “Cancel,” he says again, placidly.

Harry sighs. “I don’t want to. She’s going to bring her stupid boyfriend along and I’m going to have to be nice to him and I don’t want to do that, Niall.”

“She’s your sister,” Niall says patiently. “You adore her, and you’re her favorite person in the world.”

“I wanted to get pissed with you and try – er, try that thing again,” Harry amends himself quickly when his driver slides behind the wheel.

Sounding amused, Niall says, “We’ll do that after. Call Grimmy and cancel, mate. You know it’s the right thing to do.”

So Harry does. Grimmy’s right understanding, especially when Harry explains why. “Ooh, little popstar’s got to grow up,” he laughs. “Don’t worry, Haz. Things will settle down soon. This is what happens when you’re not on a world tour, you know. Peoples’ lives go on.”

“I know that,” Harry says, even though he feels like he’s just learning it.

Harry meets Gemma at the restaurant of her choice. He’s even a few minutes early, because he couldn’t decide what to wear and settled on what he wore on the plane. Family outings are nice like that, though. He can dress as badly as he wants and the worse critiques are going to come from people he loves.

He pauses behind the maître d’ when he sees Gemma sat at a table next to a tall, skinny lad with cokebottle glasses and ruffled bronze hair. He looks a bit like a nerd, which is utterly Gemma’s type, and she looks – she looks happy. Harry picks up his feet again, more slowly now.

“Hi,” he smiles, smiling harder when Gemma surges out of her seat to wrap her arms around him. Her perfume smells just the same, flowery and soft and a little like the books she spends so much time in, and with her hair a shade of brown again, she looks so much like the big sister Harry spent his childhood toddling after. He holds onto her tight, and she rubs his back.

“Everything okay?” she whispers softly, and Harry nods, pulling back.

“You look amazing,” he tells her sincerely.

“You don’t look half-bad either,” Gemma says, her eyes critical. “You’ve been happy?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, yeah.” He spots Gemma’s – ugh, Gemma’s boyfriend – and says, “Um,” so Gemma introduces him to Brian.

Harry wants to hate him. He wants Brian to be a terrible date and smelly and mean and foul-spoken, but he’s quiet and a bit shy and he keeps up with Gemma easily, except when she and Harry start reminiscing, and even then, she turns to him and says, “Remember me telling you about – ” and he remembers, because he’s heard these stories before.

He’s nice to Harry, too, probably because he’s not a fan. Brian asks him questions and he’s patient about listening to the end, even though Harry rambles even more than he usually does, wanting his sister’s boyfriend to be awful and being mad at himself for wishing that.

“Hey,” Gemma says, elbowing him through their coats when they’re stood outside and Brian’s just going to the loo before he and Gemma take the Tube home. Harry has a car coming, and he’s offered them a ride, but. They like their public transit. “Are you okay?”

Harry nods and tips his head toward her, and Gemma gamely offers her shoulder up. “Missed you,” Harry whispers. He sighs. “Sorry I wished he was awful.”

“That’s okay,” Gemma says, sounding amused. “He’s not awful, then?”

“No, he’s pretty great. I think he’s in love with you.”

“Oh, good,” Gemma says, the excitement palpable through her dry tone. “Promise me, if he and I get married, you’ll help with the wedding vows.”

Harry nods, starting to smile. “I’ve been told my specialty is soppy love songs.”

“Maybe you can walk me down the aisle,” Gemma muses, looping her arm through her little brother’s. “You know, so I won’t have to pick between Des and Robin.”

“And I can be godfather to your first kid,” Harry suggests, thinking of the cherubic little thing. His and Gemma’s eyes would match well with Brian’s hair color, he thinks.

Gemma laughs. “Whoa, now! Slow down,” she kisses the top of his head. “We’re not yet engaged, even.”

“I’d marry you,” Harry declares. “You know, if we weren’t brother and sister, and, like, you know. That wasn’t super gross.”

Gemma kisses the top of his head again, the bell on the door tinkling behind them as Brian comes out. “Love you too, babe.”

Harry asks the driver to just show him around for a bit, and he watches the streets of London slip past. He thinks of being seventeen and eighteen, living here with Louis with the rest of the future in front of them, and everything’s different. And nothing’s different. Harry’s not sure which is true. Both, he thinks.

Niall texts him an address in a suburb at some point, so Harry passes it on to the driver, who merely turns the wheel and heads north.

The car drops him off and Harry waves away, confident that Niall must’ve sent him somewhere trustworthy, even though he has no idea what he’s doing in front of a big old house with a gate out front. Harry presses the buzzer and slips his hands back into his pockets, his breath sending puffs of condensation trickling away into the air.

“Yep?” Niall asks.

“It’s me,” Harry says. “I’m freezing my arse off.”

“Can’t have that,” Niall says dryly, and the gate buzzes and swings open. Harry walks up the round driveway, admiring the house. It’s expensive without being overly so, and it’s not as boring as most of the houses that Harry’s used to seeing around LA. Ivy climbs one whole wall and the shudders are a bright red, the door a warm yellow. The rock walls are homey and authentic-looking and Harry thinks he might be able to scale them, if he ever had to.

The door opens just as Harry steps onto the stoop, and Niall’s there in a soft-looking jumper, his hands curled into anxious fists. Some essential tension inside of Harry gives way immediately, and he stumbles into Niall’s arms, breathing deep.

“She’s probably going to marry him,” Harry tells Niall.

“Sorry,” Niall says, tucking a lock of Harry’s hair back into his bun.

Harry shakes his head. It’s for the best. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Take a look around,” Niall says, ushering Harry in. The foyer opens into a long hallway; golden sunlight pours through the windows into the kitchen to the right, and there’s a dimly lit den to the left. It might make a nice office, actually. Either way, Harry could absolutely take a nap there. A set of stairs leads up, so Harry follows Niall around. Bedrooms, bathrooms, all with those chestnut floors and twilight from every window. Even when the sun sinks further and the light turns more blue than gold, the house looks warm. Occupied. Or maybe that’s just Niall’s effect.

Niall watches Harry snoop around the empty pantry, trying to figure out where he would put a wine rack if this was his house. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs, not sure what he’s getting at. “What do you think?”

“Well I bought it, so I must’ve liked it,” Niall says. His voice is tight with nerves.

Harry turns slowly on his heel from his examination of the skylight. “You what?”

“Yeah, I mean. Figured if I was gonna be staying in London I should get a bigger place. You know, in case – ” He pauses. “Well, you know.”

Suddenly Harry can hear little feet pitter-pattering on the stairs as the small army of kids Niall always wanted races down the stairs on Christmas morning, a dog barking in the yard. The creak of a rocking chair, because a place like this wouldn’t be complete without it. The smell of cookies baking and Niall plucking guitar strings with exacting attention.

Harry has to swallow hard. “You never disappoint me, you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just…” Harry takes a step across the room, and he can see the back garden out of the window above a windowseat, rolling hills that look like sheer adventure to kids. That look like nice strolls and collecting hazelnuts and roasting them with mixed success, and giving up and roasting marshmallows instead, and later, racing around collecting fireflies. Does London have fireflies? Butterflies, then, if not.

“You’re like the sun,” Harry says, hoping that Niall will get it. That he’ll understand, somehow, that it’s been a pleasure and an honor to orbit around him for the past few years. Just in case he doesn’t, Harry tells him so.

Niall flushes and looks away, a blush creeping up his throat. “So you like the house?”

“It’s perfect,” Harry says, and when Niall looks up, he knows they’re thinking the same thing. He hopes they are, anyway. That someday, maybe…

 

***

 

“Why are my suits always so weird?” Liam asks, tugging on his cuffs. Henry’s got him in cufflinks, today, which are such a bother to get on and off, and you’re screwed if it’s hot, because you can’t roll your sleeves up. Harry winces sympathetically.

He turns back to himself in the mirror, studying his reflection. Lou works a brush through his hair, the black apron thing already secured around his neck. Lux is sat at his feet, drawing him a picture, and Harry might almost believe that this is just another event in a long line of events, but it’s not. They’re at the end of the line now.

“What are we doing today?” Lou asks, brushing Harry’s hair back. “Blow dry? A trim?”

“Cut it,” Harry decides. “Not – not all of it, but, like. I don’t know. So it fits under a motorcycle helmet.”

Lou just nods, and Harry watches her start snipping inches of his hair off. It’s not short by any means, but it’s tame. Less like he’s not had in cut in ages, more like a lion’s mane.

“If we don’t come back,” he can’t help but ask. “What are you going to do?”

“Move to LA, probably,” she answers. “Me and Tom are trying to figure that out now, but. I think I’ve got him convinced.”

Harry’s eyebrows go up. “Tom?”

Lou shrugs, then nods. “Yeah.” They both look at Lux playing at Harry’s feet, her fingers clenched around a set of Uno cards. She’d wiped the floor with Liam and Niall earlier. “Once you love someone like that, it never really goes away.”

Harry bites the inside of cheek, letting Lou snip-snip-snip her way around his head. He doesn’t quite look like himself, but he looks more like the person he wants to be. It’s a good look.

“Sharp,” Liam comments, when Lou takes the cape off and lets Harry trundle off to wardrobe. Liam grins wide, clapping Harry on the shoulder, and Harry remembers how much he’s missed him. “Haz,” Liam starts, pulling Harry in with an arm around his shoulders, “listen, would you mind coming with me later?”

“I don’t really want to go out – ” Harry starts, and Liam cuts him off.

“No, no,” he assures him smoothly. “Maybe to, uh. Look at rings with me? I could use another opinion on, erm, what Sophia would like.”

Harry looks at Liam’s wide, honest face, his trusting brown eyes. They put so much faith in Liam’s ability to handle the press, especially about Zayn, that sometimes Harry forgot that Liam loved Zayn. That Liam loved them all in his way, that he might always be trusted to keep bringing them back together. “Sure,” he agrees. “I’d love to, Liam.”

Liam smiles wide.

Henry dresses Harry in a dark red suit with a navy blue pocket square, and when Harry sees Niall, he groans, because he’s wearing the inverse of Harry’s outfit. He looks sharp and well fit and much more confident in his fancy clothes than Harry feels. Niall grins, looking him up and down. “Nice, Styles.”

Harry tries to cozy up to him, grinning like the cat that ate the canary, and Niall pushes him away. “Go check on your damn dog, please. And name it while you’re at it, no dog should be put in a kennel under the name ‘Dog.’”

So Harry steps aside to pull up the kennel’s app, where there’s a camera trained on his dog’s crate. He’s fast asleep, of course, the lazy pup. Harry’s heart lurches a little in fondness.

“Look at him!” Liam laughs. “Worse than Louis with his babies.”

“That’s not true,” Louis says, guiltily pocketing his own phone. “He’s at least several times worse.”

“Plus he’s got two babies,” Niall points out, “so, like, double the heart eyes,” and they all fall upon arguing about who’s the sappiest member of One Direction until it’s time to load up for the event.

He’s going to miss them like mad, Harry thinks, grinning at nothing with Niall’s knee pressed to his.

With Shauna’s commandment to keep his damned hands to himself and Niall’s new rule about not fondling him under the table in place, Harry gets up and wanders about a lot to avoid temptation. He runs into Vance Joy again, whose head of hair is even wilder than Harry’s now. He beams when he spots Harry and pulls him into a crushing hug.

“Did you ever pick a song?” he asks with a smile, when they’ve caught up a bit.

“Oh,” Harry says, startled. “No, it slipped my mind a bit. Sorry.”

Vance shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. It’s great seeing you, Styles. Hope to see you at the next one, too.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Yeah, will do.”

Harry, Niall, and Louis all cut out as soon as their category is awarded. Louis wants to be on the first flight back home to his kids, and Harry and Niall promised dinner with their parents.

It’d been Maura’s and Anne’s idea to combine the family dinners on this visit, which is less weird than it ought to be. Still, it’s. It’s nice to walk into the restaurant strung up with fairylights with a Fleetwood Mac song already queued up, both of their families mashed up together like one big happy family. More than nice, maybe.

Harry tucks himself into Bobby’s side, earning him a side-eye glare from Niall, who’s stuck between Maura and Anne. Anne puts her arm around his shoulders and pulls him in close, and Gemma and Brian start up a passionate debate about the best Eagles album, and it’s too much to take in. Too much to want, and too hard to have it, now. Harry slips out for a moment to catch his breath.

Louis picks up the call almost at once. “What are you doing calling me, Harry?” he asks tiredly. “Thought you had plans tonight.”

“I do, just. I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks with a sigh that tells Harry he’s not exasperated, he’s just beat.

Harry toes at the ground. “Nothing,” he whispers into the receiver.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. Harry thinks of his beautiful babies and their lovely mother, and how hard it is on Louis that they’re not going to get to grow up with him just down the hall in case they get scared in the night. He and Bri are making it work, but.

“D’you think it’s always this hard?” Harry asks. “Getting what you want, I mean.”

Louis snorts. “I dunno, Haz. You’d have to ask Zayn.” He yawns over the line.

“We should golf when I get back,” Harry suggests. “I’ll teach you. It’s not as awful as you think.”

“Maybe,” Louis hums. “Probably not, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You and Niall are having your big break-up in, what, a week? Something like that? Just, after that, if we’re papped hanging out together, and you’re officially bi or whatever, then.” He already sounds apologetic, but Harry’s blood runs cold. Not that – not that he shouldn’t have expected it, just that he didn’t. Just that he’s caught off-guard, again, by how entirely his life is caught up in it. “I don’t want my kids to grow up with that hanging over their heads, and – ”

Harry clears his throat. “No, no, I get it. I get it.”

“Alright, well,” Louis says. “It was nice, like. Being friends again, sort of.”

“Next time,” Harry says. “Next time we’ll do it better, right?”

“You bet,” Louis answers softly. The line clicks off.

 

***

 

“You’re quiet,” Niall observes in the car on the way back to the hotel. He’s buckled into the seat on the other side of the car, and there’s no way to move closer to him without being tremendously obvious about it. Or, wait, but. Harry can move closer, everybody thinks they’re dating. Everybody assumes they’re shagging except their actual friends. God, it’s too confusing to keep up with.

Harry just props his chin up on his hand and admits, “A little tired, yeah. ‘S all good,” he tacks on, wanting to smooth away the worry line on Niall’s brow with his fingers.

Management booked them separate rooms, so they split up to change into their own clothes, and then Harry totes his phone charger and his sleep mask and his toothbrush over to Niall’s room.

Niall doesn’t answer when Harry knocks, so Harry uses the key Niall gave him and lets himself in. He can hear water running in the loo, so Harry arranges the pillows the way he likes them on the bed and then lays down on top of most of them, his bad back sighing with relief. He thumbs through his emails, the most recent a rave review from John about his most recent song.

Yeah, Harry types back, I’ve got more where that came from.

Niall comes out of the loo in a pair of soft joggers and a white t-shirt. He didn’t bother shaving since Harry’s made it abundantly clear how he feels about Niall’s facial hair, and Harry almost does a double-take. He looks so much like Bobby.

“You look like your dad,” Harry observes, watching Niall crawl over him. Niall lays down heavily right on top of him, and Harry’s pressed down into his layer of down pillows, just like he likes.

“Stop hitting on me dad,” Niall mumbles against Harry’s chest. “Christ, I’m tired.”

Harry rakes his fingers through Niall’s hair. “Me, too,” he agrees.

“In the morning, then,” Niall suggests. “Before our flight. First one up gets the other up, too.”

“Literally,” Harry adds, rubbing his thumb over the spot behind Niall’s ear. Niall’s eyes close. “Ooh, or we could wait for the plane.”

Niall yawns again, moving onto his side, so that he’s wedged into Harry’s side on his pillowtop mattress. Harry wraps his arm around his shoulders. “Or both,” he suggests.

“Why not,” Harry agrees, pressing his cold toes to Niall’s calf. Niall grumbles but doesn’t move away, his breath already slow and steady, just on the verge of sleep. “Night, Niall.”

Los Angeles is just as they left it, except now Niall spends more time than ever preparing for the run of three shows he and the band have promised at the Olympic. They had someone from the Internet design the posters so they look proper sick, and they’ve even almost got their set list pinned down.

Harry expects to miss it when he takes the dog on to their final rehearsal before the first show, the madness and the chaos that goes on behind the scenes. Make-up and wardrobe and running around trying to find a belt that won’t let his pants slip down his arse.

“Ready?” Harry asks Niall, who’s already dressed in his stage get-up of a Gucci shirt patterned with musical notes that Harry’s pretty sure Niall filched from his wardrobe. “Nervous?”

Niall fidgets with the guitar in his lap, an acoustic with a nice dark finish. “Eh,” he shrugs, which is a yes.

“I’ll suck you off in your dressing room if you want,” Harry offers.

“Save it for after the show,” Niall answers. “If I don’t throw up all over meself or mess something up.”

Harry rolls his eyes and nods, bending down to kiss Niall’s face. He gets the side of his nose and he licks Niall without thinking about it, tasting makeup and hairspray. Harry grimaces. “Alright, well, c’mon pup. We’ve got to go get pretty.”

“You’ve got to name him eventually,” Niall says, setting his guitar aside to take the dog’s head between his hands. He ruffles his fur and whistles a short tune in the pup’s ears, making him cock his head interestedly.

“I’ve tried almost every name in the apps, Niall,” Harry points out. “He just doesn’t want to be named.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. Go away, let me be nervous.”

“I’ll be sitting in the VIP section,” Harry tells Niall, as if Niall doesn’t know this.

The weirdest thing about seeing Niall onstage is that he’s not there with him. Once Harry gets over that he starts enjoying the concert. It’s a strange smattering of musicians with different styles, but they’ve picked a selection of covers that do them well enough. They advertised this show as just “The Moonlights” so that the audience wouldn’t come just because of name recognition, but the moment Hozier starts singing, of course, everyone knows who they are.

For all his nerves, Niall hits his marks just fine. His voice is strong and healthy and not half-beaten to death like Harry’s, and to say that Harry’s proud of him is a massive understatement.

It’s not until they start in on their Beatles cover that Harry really gets it, though. Not music, he understands music, or performing, he loves that, but. They start singing “Blackbird” and Niall takes the lead, tipping his head back and hitting the high note in “the dead of night” like he was born for it. Like the music is just rising out of him without any effort at all, and Harry goes still in his seat. “You were only waiting for this moment to arise,” Niall sings, the others joining in again, and the spell breaks. But Harry doesn’t forget it.

“You were amazing,” Harry tells Niall when he finds him in his dressing room. He thrusts a bouquet of flowers in Niall’s arms and says, “Like, proper amazing, Nialler. Better than I’ve ever heard you. You were – ”

Niall cuts him off with a kiss. He drops the bundle of flowers and reaches up to angle Harry’s face to his. His hairline and his shirt are damp with sweat, so Harry only presses in closer, running his hands up the back of Niall’s shirt, feeling out his soft cool shoulder blades like the bony nubs of wings. “Let’s go home,” Niall says, pulling back from Harry, his lips already reddening.

“Fucking finally,” Niall says, the moment they cross the threshold. He kisses Harry so hard he stumbles back into the wall, Niall stabilizing them with his hands on Harry’s hips. He slides his hands around Harry’s back and heaves, and they actually manage to pull it off, Harry’s legs wrapped around Niall’s waist.

“Now that,” Harry says, “we definitely should have filmed.” He trusts Niall not to drop him even though he does his damnedest to get him to, pressing biting little kisses all over Niall’s throat until Niall dumps him on the bed, crawling on after.

Niall kisses him, working Harry’s shirt up his ribs. “You want to do this, right?”

“I really, really want you to fuck me,” Harry confirms, “and I promise not to come first this time.”

Niall actually laughs with Harry’s hands inside his shirt, trying to get it off without undoing the buttons. “You fecking liar.”

“Don’t know until we try,” Harry points out, wriggling out of his jeans. He watches Niall do the same, his skin pale and smooth and freckled. Harry spent one particularly memorable afternoon connecting the freckles on Niall’s shoulders and back into constellations. There’s a sheaf of Polaroids somewhere around here with a set of photos, Niall’s arms pillowed beneath his head while Harry took pictures of his artwork, the sheets pooled just above the rise of his bum. Harry would quite like to use them as his Christmas cards, and his greeting cards, and his thank you cards, if he wasn’t sure that Niall would absolutely kill him first.

Niall finds the lube much faster than Harry had last time, everything going slow, careful. “You sure?” Niall asks again, so Harry leans up and kisses him. It’s still uncomfortable at first, but now he knows what he has to look forward to, so it’s everything Harry has not to urge Niall to go too fast. Or come first. He should’ve thought twice before he made that promise, he could probably go two rounds tonight.

“Ready,” Harry finally cracks, “I can’t take this anymore, c’mon, I’m ready, let’s go.” He rolls onto his stomach, his arms and legs like water.

“Bossy,” Niall comments, sounding breathless. He kisses a trail up Harry’s back, his palms wide and firm over Harry’s hips. “Yeah?”

“Not getting any younger,” Harry says, his voice cracking halfway through.

It’s…different, that’s for sure. A little uncomfortable, again, until he gets used to it. And then Niall insists on finding a good angle, which takes forever, which makes Harry think he’s going to die before Niall gets off. And then Niall hits the right angle, and “Oh,” Harry groans, digging his fingers into the sheets.

“That’s what I thought,” Niall says smugly. He settles into a steady rhythm, the whole world shrinking down to this bedroom and their labored breathing. Niall’s hands are so tight on his hips, it’s like he’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Which is funny, because that’s how Harry feels about Niall.

Niall freezes, his weight resting on Harry for a moment as he goes limp, and Harry realizes what’s happened. He has a split second of smugness before Niall reaches around and jerks him off, and then it’s over embarrassingly fast, the two of them collapsing into a sweaty heap on top of the sheets.

“I love you,” Niall says, so softly Harry’s not sure he was meant to hear.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he answers, because it’s true.

Harry jerks awake from a doze to find the other side of the bed empty. He swallows and sits up, glancing into the loo, but the light is off and the door is open. Harry stumbles out of bed and pulls on the nearest pair of underwear he can find. The hallway light is on and he blinks, half-blinded, as he makes his way to the kitchen. He stops short. Niall’s standing over the hob in his boxers, sipping from a mug of tea.

“Niall?” Harry asks. “Are you…?”

“‘M okay,” Niall answers. “I’ll be back soon, just having a cuppa.”

“Okay,” Harry says. He doesn’t move. He’s afraid to take his eyes off Niall.

Niall sighs and puts his mug in the sink. “Alright, ‘m coming,” Niall says, flicking the light off. Harry turns and makes his way back to bed, where the sheets still smell like sex and sweat. Niall climbs in after, but he doesn’t plaster himself to Harry’s back like he usually does after an especially good go. Maybe he’s just tired, or something. Harry can’t quite figure what he’s done wrong. Eventually Niall nods off, the snoring he swears he picked up from Harry kicking up, so Harry closes his eyes and matches his breathing to Niall’s. He was just inside him, literally, and now he couldn’t feel further away.

 

***

 

Harry nibbles on a bit of celery. “Are you sure you can’t come?” he presses. “It’s just a quick grocery trip. I need you to hold the dog’s leash while I smell the dryer sheets. Please?”

“I’ve got a show,” Niall says shortly, putting his bowl and spoon down on the table with more force than is strictly necessary. “I don’t want to be late.”

“It’s not for hours,” Harry argues, biting the inside of his cheek. “This will take twenty minutes.”

“And you’ve spent at least that long trying to make me go! I’m busy today, Harry, I can’t do it. Find someone else.”

Harry looks down at his plate of celery stalks smeared with peanut butter. It’d sounded amazing when he was ranging for something to eat this morning, but now the peanut butter is sticking in his mouth like he might choke on it. “You’re angry with me,” he observes. Admits.

“I’m not mad,” Niall insists, slamming the fridge door shut. “Just,” he takes a deep breath, rubbing his forehead. “I can’t make it, alright? I’m sorry. Maybe the day after tomorrow.”

Harry fidgets with one of the celery stalks. “You leave then,” he observes. He hasn’t got it marked on any calendar or even in his phone, but Harry can’t turn off the countdown in his head marking off the minutes until Niall boards the plane to go back to London. And then Shauna takes over their social media accounts and releases a statement, and. Two days. “Okay,” Harry says. “I’ll be at your show tonight same time as yesterday.”

“Great,” Niall says, chewing his cereal loudly.

The show goes as well that night as it had the night before, the lot of them professionals. It’s probably even better, actually, as they find their groove. Plus word’s gotten out about the band members so now the whole venue heaves with the number of audience members packed inside.

Harry meets Niall backstage again, where Niall changes clothes quickly and efficiently and accepts the helmet Harry offers him. He takes a winding route home, hoping that at some point Niall’s tense arm around Harry’s waist will loosen up. It doesn’t, and when they get home, Niall gets off the bike stiffly, favoring his bad knee. He won’t let Harry touch it, let alone give him an ice pack, so Harry leaves him to his own devices and pores over his journals, trying to make the words take the shape of verses and lyrics.

“Okay,” Harry says, when Niall just nods a hello to him when Harry walks into the living room the next morning. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m sorry, okay? Can we please just go back to the way things were?”

Niall looks at Harry for a moment, his face like a mask, like he doesn’t know Harry at all. “Alright,” he says finally. “Sure.”

“Okay,” Harry says again, his chest heaving a bit. “Well, I’m going to take the dog for a walk. Do you want to come?”

“No, I’m – I’m in the middle of a match, sorry. Next time?”

Harry twitches with the effort of not bursting out. There is no next time! Tomorrow he leaves and Harry never has this again. He never gets to wake up to Niall’s elbow in his face and his own cold toes warmed under Niall’s calves, he never gets to look only so far as his living room for Niall again. Doesn’t he get that? Because it’s killing Harry.

“Sure,” Harry just says. “Yeah. Next time.”

He stops at a park because he doesn’t want to go home and face Niall. It’s pitiful, but apparently, so is Harry. The dog gets bored of chasing after sticks Harry throws and then collecting them in his mouth without giving them back to Harry, so Harry rubs a hand through the dog’s fur. He whistles a bit of “Songbird,” because he’d thought about recommending it to Niall and his new band, and the dog’s ears perk up. He whines softly.

“Hm,” Harry hums. “You like Rumours, huh?” He whistles a bit of “Landslide,” next, just to be sure, and what do you know. “Rumours?” He groans. “Oh, Christ. No.” The dog just wiggles his tail harder, and Harry sighs, giving up. “Okay. Rumour you are, then, little lad.”

Niall’s in the bedroom collecting his things when Harry gets home. “I…”

“Is this shirt mine or yours?” Niall asks, raising the shirt with the horses on. “I think it’s mine, but I’ll leave it.”

“You’re – but you don’t leave until tomorrow.”

“I know, but it’s an early flight. Just want to have my shite together,” Niall responds. He keeps folding his clothes into tighter and tighter bundles, and he won’t look at Harry.

“Niall,” Harry starts uncertainly, and Niall cuts him off. “Have to get to the theatre soon,” he says. “Gonna jump into the shower.”

Harry’s waiting for Niall when he comes out of the bathroom in just his underwear, his hair dripping onto his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” Harry says, “if I made it seem like I wasn’t happy for you. Didn’t mean to make it seem that way. So, like,” he swallows. “What you’re doing is actually pretty amazing, and I – here,” he offers Niall the present.

Niall takes it slowly, sinking down onto the bed next to Harry. “What is it?”

“Open it,” Harry urges him.

Niall peels the wrapping paper off the harmonica, revealing it to the light. It’s a nifty little thing, precious and beautiful and smaller than Harry expected it to look in Niall’s hand, like it belongs there already.

“I don’t know if, like,” he swallows. “But I know some of your, like, heroes play it, so. Maybe you’re not our Keith Richards. Maybe you’re our Springsteen,” Harry suggests, his voice cracking.

“Harry, I…” Niall licks his lips.

“Do you like it?”

“I always like what you give me,” Niall admits, admiring it in his hand.

Harry swallows. “But?”

Niall lets his hand drop to his lap. “I told you I loved you and you said – well, you didn’t say it back.”

“I said – ”

“I heard what you said,” Niall interrupts him. “And it’s just not the same, is it?” Niall looks at his hands. “Be honest. Do you think we’d be friends if not for the band?”

“What?” Harry asks. Niall doesn’t say anything else, so Harry works his lower lip over with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it. I mean, I hope so.”

“Would you love me if we weren’t in a band together?” Niall asks next.

“Wha – I – you’re like a part of me,” Harry flounders.

“When you said you were tired of the band,” Niall drives on relentlessly, “did you mean you were tired of us, too?” He looks Harry in the eye. “When you wanted to disband after Zayn quit, was it really just because we’d promised?”

Harry shakes his head, standing up. He paces agitatedly back and forth in front of Niall. He feels, again, like he’s lost the plot. “I don’t understand,” he tells Niall. “What does any of that matter?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out if you can tell the difference between me and the band,” Niall says. “Or if we’re the same thing to you.”

“I…” Harry stops short. “I love you.”

Niall rubs his hand over his face. “In Italy,” he starts, and Harry’s stomach drops through his feet, “I asked you if you were ready. If you thought you’d ever be ready. Or if it was all just a joke.”

Hoarsely, Harry says, “I remember.”

“I think I get it now,” Niall says. “You’re never going to be ready, are you? Not for real, not if it’s not pretend and we’re guaranteed to break up in a few months.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, that’s – no.” He takes a deep breath and tries to sort out his thoughts, tries to figure out why, exactly, he can’t let himself have this. Have Niall. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he says. “Be me, and do it, with the whole world breathing down my neck. I had to get away, to LA.”

“I’ve a passport,” Niall points out. “I could’ve come to see you.”

Harry shakes his head. “I had to – I had to not be me for a while, and you make me…me. The most me, I mean. I couldn’t have done it with you. So I wasn’t ready then. And when you asked again, in Italy, and I said no, it wasn’t because I didn’t want you. I always want you. I said no because I don’t want to lose you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If we were together and we broke up, it’d be my fault,” Harry says. “You’d get bored of me, or I’d leave too much, and you’d hate me for it, or something. I don’t – I need you more than I want you.”

Niall stares at him, and Harry wonders if a word of that made sense. If anything has, or if he’s just confused him all the more. For his part, Harry finally feels like he understands himself. He feels like he finally has a clean slate, like he’s said it all, all the things he’s been meaning to say since Italy. “And you are the band,” he adds. “Whatever that means. There’s no band without you.”

Niall hangs his head, and Harry’s a little afraid he’s crying, because he’s got tears leaking out of his own eyes. Niall’s shoulders shake, and then Harry realizes Niall’s laughing.

“What are you laughing about?” Harry demands. He starts laughing too, out of habit.

“Nobody loves me the way you do,” Niall says. “And I can’t even think that without one of our own stupid songs going in my head. Christ.” He laughs harder, and Harry joins in. Niall opens his arms and Harry goes easily, cuddling up to Niall as close as he can get without crawling under his skin. “I don’t think anybody else in the world loves me as much as you do.”

Harry presses his forehead against Niall’s, closing his eyes. “I’m always going to love you,” he says. “And someday, maybe…”

“Someday maybe we’ll be ready at the same time,” Niall agrees, tucking Harry’s head under his chin. “Someday.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

***

 

“I feel like we should get to have some dramatic farewell airport scene,” Harry tells Niall, when he’s gone as far as he can go through the airport without flying out himself. It’d taken half a miracle just to get him in here with security urging him to stay in the car the whole time. He just couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been right. It still doesn’t feel right, waving goodbye to Niall as he makes his way through security, a baseball cap pulled down over his hair and those mirrored lenses over his eyes.

Niall adjusts the cap. “No, I know,” he agrees. “Maybe next time I’ll fly local, we can give it a shot.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees. He puts his hands in his pockets, determined not to make this harder than it has to be. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then, right? To vote.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then,” Niall agrees. He hesitates, and then he leans forward, kissing Harry on the corner of his mouth. Harry smiles a bit. “It was a pleasure pretend-dating you. We’ll have to give it a try for real one of these days.”

“Looking forward to it,” Harry repeats, just so that Niall knows he means. That he wishes it was true now. But he can’t force something like that. If he could, he would have.

Harry’s only just sliding into the car when his phone rings, Niall’s face equal parts pleasure and pain when he checks the screen. “‘All my bags are packed / I’m ready to go,’” Niall sings, “‘The dawn is breakin’ / It’s early morn / The taxi’s waitin.’ Come on, Haz. If you don’t start singing along I’m going to feel proper silly.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m creating the goodbye moment,” Niall says. “I know you’re a sap for that kind of shit. ‘So kiss me and smile for me,’” he sings, and Harry closes his eyes as the car pulls away from the airport, imagining Niall making his way through security, taking his shoes off, being swept by one of those magnetic wand things. Collecting his bags and walking with his hoard of security to the plane, where the other passengers are going to look at him like he’s a lunatic. Niall hates drawing attention to himself like that. Harry sings along louder, trying to drown out the feeling like he’s about to burst into tears.

“‘Oh, babe, I hate to go,’” Niall and Harry finish, when Harry can almost see his neighborhood again. “The flight attendant’s telling me I have to hang up.”

“Okay. That’s okay,” Harry says. “I love you. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Be good,” Niall says simply, ringing off.

 

***

 

Harry takes Rumour with him to London for the vote because Jeff got him a private plan, and he might as well take someone. He’d tried to talk to Harry about managing him again and Harry had said, “I’m here for lunch with my friend. Let’s save the business stuff for a business meeting, please,” and so they’d had a lovely vegetarian sushi with no talk of ticket sales.

He takes a car to Liam’s house where they’d agreed to have the vote, and then maybe some pizza and FIFA before everybody went their separate ways again. Harry beats Louis to Liam’s by a mile, so he and Niall and Liam catch up on the way Niall’s tour is shaping up and the song Harry’s writing for that blockbuster film coming out next year. Louis gets in with the energy of a hurricane, smelling mildly of vodka tonic. Nobody comments on it.

“Okay, okay, boys,” Liam says, when they’re all well distracted and Harry’s almost forgotten what he’s there for, with Rumour chasing after the cricket bat Harry found in Liam’s living room and actually bringing it back to him. “Let’s get the business over with so we can go back to having fun.”

“Alright,” Harry grumbles, piling in between Louis and Niall on the couch. “Wait,” he says. “I think we should close our eyes.”

“Why would we close our eyes? We don’t have anyone to count the votes,” Liam points out logically.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I feel like we should, like. You know, not see each other’s votes till we’ve voted. Like we’ve not talked about it.”

Louis shrugs, says, “Sounds about as sane as anything else we’ve ever done,” so Liam and Niall agree.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and Liam says, “All for getting the band back together this year, raise your hand.” Liam murmurs a curse under his breath, so Harry opens his eyes slowly. Louis’s hand is high in the air, as is Liam’s. Harry’s got his own hand in the air, a solid yes. Only Niall hasn’t raised his hand.

“Niall?” Harry asks, feeling like someone has kicked him in the sternum.

“Louis has babies to raise,” Niall starts softly. “Liam’s got a wedding, you could be a great writer, if you tried. We’re not going anywhere, lads,” Niall says, looking round at each of them.

“So…” Liam starts. “So all for waiting to vote again next year?”

Niall’s hand rises into the air. “When we’re ready,” he says confidently. “It’s fate, right? If we’re meant to be together we’ll get the timing right, lads,” he insists.

Harry leans over and buries his face in Niall’s shoulder. Trust Niall to love the band the most and still be the only one to be able to make the hard decision.

“You were right, last March,” Niall says to Harry, when they’re standing on Louis’s stoop, waiting for their cars. “Not that we needed Zayn, like. But that we should’ve kept our promise. We’re not just a business, right?”

“No,” Harry agrees.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Niall scoffs.

“What?” Harry asks, smiling harder.

“Like you love me more than anyone else on Earth,” Niall answers, looking away. His lips twitch. “Downright embarrassin’, you are.”

Harry nudges Niall’s shoulder with his. “Oh, alright.”

Niall’s car arrives first. “See you,” he tells Harry, Liam and Louis cracking up inside Liam’s house, their laughter so familiar it hurts.

“Yeah, I’ll see you around,” Harry says. It feels like a promise.

* * *

_coming spring 2016_

part two: it's time to try

Harry decides it's time to get the boys back together. 


End file.
